An Obsession With Words II: The Forever Storm
by DonnaNobleoftheTARDIS
Summary: After winning the 44th Hunger Games, Wiress finds her mind slipping away as she is forced headfirst into the humiliating Victory Tour, an overwhelming Capitol lifestyle, and the pressing fact that she will have to relive the terror of her Games every year for as long as she lives.
1. I: Penumbra

An Obsession with Words II: The Forever Storm

_**Author's Note: In case you haven't guessed, this is a sequel to my fic "An Obsession with Words" and I highly recommend you read that before reading this. In anticipation of new information to come with the release of A Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, I will say that this fic will be based off all information established in my previous story, regardless of new info yet to be released. Snow has just come to power after the 44**__**th**__** Games. Wiress won the 44**__**th**__** Games and Beetee won the 41**__**st**__**.**_

* * *

Chapter 1: Penumbra

_Tatsuya and Intel are at my sides, escorting me down a long hallway. I'm trying to talk to both of them, begging them to forgive me. Neither of them act as if they can hear me, and I can't hear my own voice either. At the end of the hallway there's a glowing orange light. It's a vortex of pure flame. Suddenly, I realize my hands are tied behind my back. _

_ Tatsuya, who's last act was giving me my first kiss as he lay dying in the rain…_

_ Intel, who went to his fate with a graceful courage I could never muster…_

_ A redheaded woman wielding a spear as tall as she is guards the vortex. Lustra, the Career who only came in second place because I was a faster runner…_

_ How am I here? How am I alive? _

_ Lustra nods to the two boys at my sides, and without warning, they shove me at the flaming vortex, and I begin to feel it searing my skin—_

I awaken with a start.

I have no idea how I'm able to function during any given day. The average human needs at least six to seven hours of sleep. I don't think I've gotten more than four hours a night since I came back to District 3. Tonight, it's only been two.

Sometimes, I can hear Beetee scuffle above me when I wake. I know he has insomnia too, and he'll use it to work on some new invention, which explains the footsteps above me. I'll use that as a signal to run up to the Penthouse of the 'Victor's Village' and ask him to lie in bed with me. He never refuses me, and when he rings me back downstairs, I can usually sleep a little more. The best part is when I wake, he is always there. He won't leave me until I get up.

However, there isn't much noise above me tonight, so I'm on my own.

Ever since winning the 44th Hunger Games on what I still insist was a fluke of the system used in the arena, I've been seeing nothing in my dreams but bodies, fiery tornadoes, acid rain leaving scars on my hands, and hearing cannons go off. Beetee told me this was to be expected, and that occasionally a Capitol doctor would come to evaluate us both.

"They'll offer you a medication," he had warned.

"I shouldn't…?" I begin.

Beetee shrugs. "If you think they will help, you can choose to use them, but side effects occur. You'll feel numb inside, complacent, and submissive."

I decided that, even if the nightmares go away, it wouldn't be worth surrendering my personality. Granted, I've always been introverted and easily swayed, but I don't want the people who sent me to my near-execution to have the final say in how I am. So I refused the pills when the doctor offered them to me.

I climb out of my ridiculously oversized bed, which has a canopy and drawable curtains. The Capitol has always been ostentatious, but a part of me has always felt the small pocket of luxury they've given me in return for winning their Games was meant to serve as much of a warning as it does a reward. It says to me: _We can take this away at any time, along with your life._

My apartment is larger than the entire floor of my old tenement in the Outer City of Three. My family didn't contribute to the official industry of the District, so we weren't particularly well off. Now, my family lives in a separate, only slightly-smaller condominium just below mine in Victor's Village. The name is a misnomer. Most Districts have mansions lining a street for their winners to live in. District Three is a large, lifeless, smog-filled cityscape. There is no room for a village to be built, so instead there is a high-rise luxury building, and each Victor lives on the floor they choose. Beetee was the first Victor for Three in a long time, so he had his pick of any of the condos, but the layout is mostly the same. A large entryway leads down a few steps into a living space, giving way on the left to a large kitchen and dining room (always stocked with food, drink, and the latest cooking tech), and a set of bedrooms to the back. The windows are floor-to-ceiling, but tinted on the outside. The floors are plush carpet so soft it feels like walking on a down pillow. The furniture is soft enough that my smallish body sinks right into the cushions. The screen on which Beetee and I will occasionally watch the District News takes up nearly half of the wall to the right, and underneath is a fireplace and mantle. Everything is in sterile white, which I am used to thanks to the summers I spent in Daddy's dental office as a child, but it is still unsettling to my mind. All of it is. It's all so…unnatural, like a person wouldn't have the capacity to decorate a room so pristinely.

I turn on a light and head to my favorite room in the place. Each apartment has three bedrooms, I assume to accommodate Victors who marry and have children. As that doesn't seem to be in my future, I took the liberty of having Beetee order on my behalf one of the spare rooms to be converted into a library, stocked floor-to-ceiling with every book I could ever want. The Capitol delivered. You can't see the walls through the shelves and shelves of tomes. By the window, there is a chaise longue with a lamp and side table. It is my haven, my sanctuary, the only place I feel absolutely safe without Beetee, though one of my new favorite ways to bond with him is inviting him down for tea and having us read to one another. My beloved words.

Beetee has become nothing short of my skeleton. That is, he is my shape and support. He keeps the rest of me standing on stable ground…as much as he can. Even he can't do much when I have a 'meltdown.' Since winning the Games, I'd had more panics than I'd ever had up to that point. I can't control it. My mind goes away, I flail desperately, cover my eyes and ears, and shrink down into the floor. Sometimes I pass out. These attacks happen without trigger and without warning. Sometimes the slight bang of my family knocking on the door is enough to set one off. I lose a little more control every day.

When I came home from the Games, Beetee kissed me, and I wasn't sure how I felt. He said he'd wait for me to be ready to be with him. Beetee is, in my mind, attractive. District Three girls don't normally look at the face and body of a man they develop love for. It is in our nature to look at the mind and accomplishments first. Beetee is devastatingly intelligent. He passes his time inventing for both himself and the Capitol. Soon after I came home, he invented a device that plays music that supplements whatever book I'm reading if I put the title into the system. It times out the music so when I'm reading a climactic battle, the music picks up. If I'm reading about ancient times, the music becomes reminiscent of that period. He loaded hundreds of songs into this little box, and all I have to do is enter the title. It is my favorite possession, and Beetee is my favorite person.

For some reason, however, tonight I don't feel compelled to read. What an odd feeling. Then I recall something Beetee had told me the other day.

Tonight, there's a partial lunar eclipse due to appear in our sky at approximately 2:40am. The clock on the wall of the library says it is 2:13. I decide to put on a heavy coat (it is winter, after all), and brew some tea to take to the roof. Maybe the smog will be thin enough to see the shadow of the Earth cross the moon.

It takes a good twenty minutes to prepare the tea. I have always been a moderately clumsy person, but after the Games I can never seem to fully get the shakes out of my hands, so I've learned to slow down instead. I'm lucky enough to not break a cup this time, but I'm certain my habit for shattering glass is singlehanded keeping the mug-making industry alive. Nevertheless, I am able to make a cup of hot fruit tea with a little time to spare before the eclipse is set to begin.

I leave my apartment and head for the stairwell. I go up past Beetee's penthouse to the heavy roof door. It's already propped open.

As I step out onto the roof, chilly air stings my face. It's winter, and while District Three sees snow sometimes, it's not as frequent as it is the northern districts, and normally we just experience more bitter temperatures. The sting does more than hurt my face…it's a reminder of what is to come in the morning.

Beetee is here, standing at the edge of the roof, looking out over the city. The night, as I'd hoped, is clear. The moon is full and visible. His back is too me, though he must have heard me open the door. I slowly walk toward him.

"I had the feeling you'd be up," he says softly as I stand next to him. He looks at me with his rich brown eyes, which look huge behind his thick glasses.

I nod silently and hold out my cup of tea to him. He smiles and takes it, sipping for a moment.

"Thank you."

"It's almost time," I sigh.

Beetee looks at me with what I believe is pity.

"The eclipse? Or…?"

I widen my eyes and gesture up at the moon. Beetee looks down bashfully.

"I know the Tour starts tomorrow," I say. "But I want to forget it."

"It's unforgettable. If you fight it, it'll only hurt more when you lose."

Something I've noticed since Beetee mentored me to victory in the Games, is that while he sounded calm and optimistic during my training, once we came home, he's been much more of a depressing realist. I'm not the only one whose brain was affected by the Games. Beetee has what, according to my books, is known as chronic depression. He will spend some times locked away, refusing to see anyone except for me. During these times, he doesn't invent. He doesn't eat much. He doesn't sleep much. Sometimes I find him the way I see him now, staring either out a window or over the edge of the roof, as if he's contemplating flying away. He doesn't cry. He just doesn't speak much.

"I know," I reply.

"Are you scared?" Beetee asks.

"Yeah."

Ever since the summer, I haven't been able to articulate much. Beetee is the only person with whom I can speak full sentences. I can create endless monologues in my mind, but speaking aloud is almost physically painful.

The Victory Tour for my Games begins tomorrow. I will be dolled up by my stylist from the Capitol, Aloysius, before being escorted by Beetee and my escort, Plume Desrosiers, to each District in Panem. Then I will be taken back t the Capitol for a feast in my honor, where I will be paraded like a prize around President Snow's mansion, expected to thank him for his generosity and the Capitol's luxury.

"Do you have your hobby ready for the cameras?" Beetee asks, as if he's checking my homework.

I nod. Each Victor must choose a luxury hobby to show off on camera for the Tour, likely to show Panem that we aren't affected in any negative way by winning a bloodbath. My hobby is poetry. I've written several short poems. They're terrible, but most people won't know the difference. They're insincere, about flowers, trees, calm winds, and other things District Three sees almost nothing of. Beetee looked over my work and said they will do just fine.

He is still looking over the edge of the roof. I feel a chill of a different kind.

I ask. "Have you ever thought about…jumping?"

A part of me expects Beetee to smile and shake his head. He is still pretty strong of mind. Instead, he takes a moment, then looks at me, his face stone.

"Yes. A hundred times. Every Victor does."

Beetee has told me about the time in between his Games and mine, where he had absolutely no one to talk to expect the Capitol doctor who evaluates his mind. Beetee has a sister, but she is much older than he is, and she never comes around. This doesn't hurt him, they were never close. As a result of the loneliness, he found himself losing hope. When I won, it's as if he had a purpose again.

I must admit, during and after panic episodes, it always occurs to me that death would be less painful and drawn out than living fully through all of this trauma.

"Do you think if you did…everything would feel better?"

The way Beetee looks at me is frightening. It's a combination of despair and hope, opposites combined into one.

"No. It's only a way out for myself. A selfish one at that. I can't leave…"

He pauses, deciding whether to hold off on finishing his thought.

"…I can't leave you."

I feel a momentary pang of guilt. If Beetee felt this way about me, what else was I keeping him back from? Was I a pet to him? I choose not to take what he says this way. I know how he feels about me. He feels love. Not familial or platonic love either.

"Then don't leave me."

Beetee hands the mug of tea back to me. I suddenly don't want it anymore. I set it on the edge and instead let him take my hand. One of the nicest things about Beetee: no matter how cold it is, his skin is always warm.

We spend a silent moment together before I choose to speak again.

"Tell me what happens tomorrow."

Asking Beetee to explain things is a good way to keep his mind happy. Sometimes I even let him explain things to me that I always know when he seems depressive.

"Aloysius and Plume will arrive at 10am. You'll film a brief segment for Dionysius Flickerman at noon, and then we'll go to the train station. We should be in District Twelve by evening. Plume will hand you a small speech to say to the crowd, and then we'll have a supper with the Mayor. The next morning, it's on to Eleven, and so forth."

I want to ask the camera people if Beetee can appear with me. There is simply no way I can do this alone.

"Look up, Wire," Beetee says softly. I do, and the moon is beginning to turn a reddish brown as the eclipse begins. "That's the penumbra. The shadow of the Earth."

It feels good to know that, in spite of everything, eclipses still exist. The Earth still revolves. The sun still burns and space is still infinite. Sometimes, when I need an anchor to keep me from spinning out of control, I take a moment to feel the air in my lungs and the ground beneath my feet. My life is in shadow, but shadows are cast by light, and light is always right next door.

We watch the eclipse silently for several minutes, until it is almost at peak.

"It's cold," Beetee mumbles.

"Yes," I reply.

"Maybe we should try and go back to bed?" he suggests. I nod. I don't even need to ask him, for I know he'll get into bed with me.

Still holding hands, we turn to go inside. I forget the mug I'd left on the ledge, but I don't care to go back for it.

We descend two floors to my apartment. Once in my bedroom, Beetee takes off his shirt as he often does for bed. I know it means nothing, and that he just prefers sleeping that way. I like his form. It's soft but with only a little belly. It's almost the opposite of mine, which is angular and bony in spite of the pubescent curves I'd developed in recent years.

Our bedtime routine is like a dance with steps to follow. Beetee climbs in under the covers first, then holds out his hand to me. I take it and go in next to him. I settle in the crook of his arm, and feel his warm skin against my cheek as I place my head on his chest. It's odd that I won't let him kiss me, yet it's in Beetee's arms this way where I feel the safest in the world. Maybe it's because during the Games, he sent me sponsor gifts with illegal hints on where to go to avoid the weather traps the arena created. Maybe it's because he's the only other person in the District who knows how I truly feel, because he's seen it too.

Beetee's breath becomes shallow and rhythmic. My mind swims too fast to fall unconscious so quickly, but soon I begin to feel drowsy, thank heavens. I try not to think about the Victory Tour and what I face. My only chance at a few more hours of rest is to live in the moment, to count the rises and falls of Beetee's chest, and to pretend that the darkness is a shield against all things terrible.

Tomorrow will be nothing but spotlights and microphones. All of Panem's eyes will be on me, just like in the Games. They will be looking to me for strength and hope. I know they will be sorely disappointed. I am more of a shadow than a spotlight.

But I know I can survive the shadows with him near me, no matter what happens in the morning.

Oh please, let the morning never come…


	2. II: Night Bird, Come Away

**Chapter II: Night Bird, Come Away**

In spite of my pleas, morning comes. As usual, Beetee is still beside me, asleep. Sometimes I wake and he has already awoken, but because he won't leave my side in bed, he sometimes will be staring at the ceiling deep in thought, or he has a book to occupy his time before I join him in consciousness. This morning, he's still passed out.

I get up and decide to get into the shower. Some of my best thoughts and calmest moments happen under the stream of endless hot water. Back in the Outer City where I grew up, hot water was shared throughout the tenement, so I could usually only get a few minutes of it a day. Plus, our shower was tiny and loud, and the water pressure varied from a trickle to a waterfall that stung the skin like needle pricks. The showers here are one of the few luxuries I fully appreciate. The stream is consistent and lovely. The tub is build into a ledge against the wall of the bathroom, and it's deep enough to sit in while the water falls over me. If I'm washing, I'll stand like a normal person, but when I use the shower to ponder or de-escalate from a panic, I'll sit, curled up under the stream.

I don't get to sit for long, however, until I'm startled by the doorbell ringing. It isn't yet 8am, so it couldn't be Aloysius and Plume.

I jump out of the shower and leave it running so I can quickly get into a loose pair of leggings and a towel before the doorbell wakes Beetee. I dash to the door and peer out the peephole.

It's Daddy, with a large box. I take a deep breath and open the door.

Daddy and I used to be close before the Games, but his way of coping with his daughter nearly being killed is offensive to me. He jokes about it. After the first round of prizes for the District were issued, he made fun of the upswing in cavities he's had to fill thanks to the candy and sugar the Capitol distributed to everyone. I can't bear to hear anyone make light of my winnings. Mommy and my brother Edison remain very quiet around me. Edison used to be my protector, but he's backed off almost completely since I came home. Maybe he feels Beetee has taken over the role of big brother to me. Maybe he feels intimidated by my experiences. Once in a while, everyone will come upstairs to dine with Beetee and I. Those evenings used to be weekly. Now they happen maybe twice a month.

"Daddy?" I ask, beckoning him inside. He's aged years and years within six months.

"Wiress," he responds. "I have something for you. For today."

He sets the white box on the large sofa facing the screen and fireplace. We sit on opposite sides of it. Without words between us, I slowly open the box and sift through the tissue paper. What I pull out is a dress in a plum color, made of a light satin material. There is a lot of fabric to the piece, and it takes several maneuvers to take it from the box and unravel it to get a better look. It has a full skirt that looks to be knee-length. The neck is low and scooping, with black trim around it as well as the hem. The back scoops even lower than the neck. The sleeves are elbow-length.

"Won't I be cold in this?" is the first thing I ask. The material is very light.

"I'm sure they'll give you some kind of coat," Daddy answers. "And remember, some Districts are warm all year round."

"I'll go try it on, then," I say, completely deadpan. No thanks, no smiles. I go into the bathroom and slip on the dress. I go to the mirror, and the first thing that occurs to me is the color. Plum and black. The same color as my training tunic as well as the Capitol-issued parka I wore in the Games. Was this on purpose, or a subconscious slip of the mind on Daddy's part? Either way, my skin crawls looking at it, but it isn't like I have a choice in wearing it.

The cut of the dress isn't particularly tight at the waste, but the line of the full skirt (which I hadn't noticed at first had a tulle petticoat underneath it to make it billow) accentuates my hips. The neckline reveals my skin just up to the point where my breasts begin. It's a grown-up lady's dress. I don't turn sixteen until next June, about three weeks before the annual Reaping, but I look like I could pass for older.

I hate it.

Last year, for the Reaping, the dress I wore was the one that had fit me since my first one at age twelve. I looked wretched in it, like my body was trying to stretch it's way out. It was a mint green, high-necked girl's frock. There is no doubt it wouldn't fit me at all anymore, but I would take it and it's familiar feeling over the awkward stiffness of this new piece.

As I step back out into the foyer, I see that Beetee has joined Daddy by the sofa. They both stand up when I come into the room. Daddy manages a smile. Beetee can't take his eyes away from me. I suddenly feel very small.

"I told you I'd get you a new dress when you came home," Daddy recalled. "You…no denying it anymore. You're a lady."

I hate when he says this. When I came back from the Games, he'd made a remark about the Capitol turning me into a woman. All I could think about were the twenty-three children who had to die to see that I got there. It makes my stomach churn even now when someone says how much I've grown.

Beetee is quiet. It must be weird to him, admiring his dentist's daughter the way I know he does. Granted, Daddy isn't his dentist any more, but it still must be odd to have a connection such as the one he has with me no matter what the scenario. I notice Beetee especially hesitates to smile around Daddy.

"Will they let me wear it?" I ask. I may not be fond of this dress, but it's a fair bit better than whatever obnoxious outfit Aloysius and Plume will put on me if they have the chance.

Beetee shrugs. "This isn't the Tributes Parade," he says. "They will probably allow it."

I nod and look down, realizing my legs aren't shaved. In the Capitol, they waxed my body clean of any hair that grew out of place, and the sharp pain of every rip was almost too much. I decided to shave my body hair instead, so my styling team wouldn't have to…but I forgot to do so yesterday.

I take another look at the men in the room before turning back and rushing quickly into the bathroom. Once I close the door I can vaguely hear what Daddy says next.

"So…Beetee…you think we'll be seeing a televised tribute wedding in the near future?"

My face turns as red as a tomato. I take off the dress with one tug over my head and retreat to the shower again before I can hear Beetee's response.

* * *

10am on the dot, my stylist team, the camera team, and Plume all arrive to dress me up like a holiday groosling for the first day of the Victory Tour. Beetee can barely fit in the room as I'm made up to an almost unrecognizable level. My hair is curled and piled in a high bun, with the front strands hanging loosely about my face. My ears, never pierced before the Games, are fitted with real diamond studs. I'm poked, prodded, washed, dried, painted, toyed with, until everything about me looks artificial.

I may have looked eighteen in the plum dress alone. Now I look thirty-five. With so much makeup piled on my face, who could tell if I were nine or ninety?

When I reappear, Plume, her hair an unnatural greenish yellow, smiles and shuffles over.

"Oh, Wiress, you look splendid! But…what about your feet?"

I look down. I'm still barefoot.

"We brought shoes, but they don't match the color of the dress," replied Aloysius.

_ Good,_ I think. The heels are as tall as my shins. How could I take a step in those dagger-like shoes?

"Then put her in the dress you brought for her, silly!" Plume argues.

"I actually like the cut of this one better," says Aloysius. "It suits her personality and complements her eyes."

"Well, what are we supposed to do? She NEEDS shoes!" Plume looks at me with disappointment. I look at Beetee for help, speechless. He seems to read my thoughts and ducks into my bedroom, appearing only seconds later with a clean but well-worn pair of black flats.

"These match," Beetee offers. Plume scoffs as if he's suggested I wear a peacock costume. His shoulders drop.

Needless to say, I'm not any more fond of Plume than I was before the Games.

"Those are HIDEOUS!" she cries. "Wiress is short…err…petite. She needs heels."

I begin to shake my head. If this were before the Games, I would've broken down and called out Plume like I did while we watched the tribute scores. I have the same passion, but my words are as shy as I am now.

"First of all, she's average height for this District," reasoned Aloysius. "Maybe an inch or two taller, actually. You forget everyone is tall in the Capitol because they are all wearing high platform shoes right now."

Plume looks at me, concerned.

"Second," my stylist continues, "I know this is hard to imagine, but maybe someone who isn't used to walking in high shoes shouldn't start practicing in front of the cameras."

"But…but they…"

"Plume, the cameras won't be filming her feet," Beetee adds.

I nod.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Wiress, please say something!" Plume demands, exasperated already. "Speak for yourself! You're a Victor! You should be exuding confidence!"

"I want my shoes," I finally spit out, but in a barely audible tone of voice.

Beetee nods and smiles encouragingly. Plume gives a melodramatic sigh.

"Alright. But we're getting you heels for the Capitol feast."

Having won this small round, I feel slightly elevated as I slip into my dependable flats.

At 11:30, Plume goes over the questions Dionysius will ask me live on air. She refuses to move on to the next question until she hears me recite my answers out loud. Most of the questions are insipid, like what my favorite part of being a Victor is, how my new apartments suit me, and how I'm adjusting to the high life.

One question threw me off guard: is there any truth to the rumor that I am pregnant with Beetee's child?

I can't help but let out a loud, shrill "HA!" That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Beetee smirks, clearly amused by this suggestion as well. I can see Mom off to the side turn pale, and Daddy look stunned.

Plume twists her lip with disapproval. "That certainly answers the question, but the Capitol needs something a little more concrete, dear."

"Don't let the idea disturb you," Beetee adds. "Rumors are started on purpose. To keep people interested in you. I had them too."

We decide on a very firm-but-pleasant denial for that one, though the idea is still enough to make looking Beetee in the eye difficult for a while.

At 12pm exactly, Dionysius' theme plays and he appears on a video feed that I can see. Camera roll on me. Five seconds, and I'm already sweating._ I can get through this, _I think. _I pulled it together for the pre-Games interview…_

Dionysius asks me every question I'd rehearsed, and with Beetee encouraging me right off camera, I manage to get through every question (even the awful one about Beetee and I getting pregnant) without much hesitation, though I'm blinded by the lights focused on me, and my ears buzz.

Then comes the finale. I have to read one of my poems on air. I chose one that took me three days to compose.

_"Night bird, come away with me  
__Away from the sun  
__Away from their traps  
__Far and away, to the farthest tree  
__In the canopy we'll sit and sing  
__Safe from their eyes  
__Safe from their plans  
__Far and away, to the farthest tree  
__Night bird, please wait for me  
__Waiting for a sign  
__Waiting to join you  
__Far and away, at the farthest tree."_

Applause ring out from the Capitol feed. I look at Beetee, who is staring back at me with a hint of admiration. I didn't think the damn poem was so special. My writing is so mediocre I don't even share my notebook of trite poems with him. I guess I didn't realize how vulnerable reading my own words out loud would make me feel.

Dionysius plugs the Victory Tour and the dates I am due to arrive at each District, then the feed cuts.

"Very well done," says Plume, beaming. "Your poetry is splendid."

"It is?"

"I imagine performers in the Capitol will be reciting that piece all over within a few days. Now, come, the train will be waiting!"

"You have to understand, Wiress, you're a celebrity now," Beetee explains to me later on the train. District Three is not far from Twelve, so there we aren't going to be sleeping here, but we sit on the bed in the sleeping car, talking. "If you had recited a five-word sentence today and called it poetry, the Capitol would still be obsessing over your words."

I shake my head. "I don't understand it at all."

"It's hard to see when you don't live in the Capitol, but after my Games, everyone bought glasses with fake lenses and wore them around for a year. They love to be told what to like, and that's your job as their IT Girl," he explains.

"I'm not right for that. I just want to be alone with you," I say quietly. Beetee takes me hand in his.

"If only it worked that way. If the Capitol wanted a charismatic trendsetter, a death match isn't exactly an intelligent way to procure one."

Beetee spends a moment telling me stories about past Victors he knew, and how I would get to know them too. A few people stuck out to him. A District Four winner from the very early days named Mags went almost entirely mute after her Victory Tour. She is presently around fifty years old. Another, a male from District 8 named Woof had a hard time discerning reality from hallucinations he experienced. A woman from Six who won about ten years ago was hopelessly addicted to morphling and was barely able to stand up straight for her Tour.

"The point is," Beetee concludes. "It's our job to give them what they want, and they will take it regardless of what it is."

The train is perfectly smooth, so the rattling in my body is of my own making.

"I'm not made for this. I'm not strong."

"You are," Beetee assures me, putting a hand on my knee. "You won the Games."

I shake my head forcefully. "It was a fluke."

"Nothing in that arena is a fluke," Beetee says.

"But you said there's always a flaw! What if…what if I'm that flaw?"

Beetee looks away from me a moment and bites his lip, contemplating carefully how to answer me.

"Victors in the past don't always get to the end by being violent. Many hide out and wait for the others to kill themselves off. I didn't even meet anyone else until I—"

He stops short. His eyes glaze over for a moment before rejoining the moment.

I've known from the minute I moved into Victor's Village that Beetee fought many of the same demons I do, just in different ways. We'd both killed in the arena as well as survived. The Gamemakers had counted Sheen from District One, who I'd shoved onto subway track and had broken his neck on the rail, and Juno from Two and Delphine from Four, who'd burned to death in a fire I'd set, among my body count. Beetee had ended twice that many in a single maneuver that had won him the Games. I hadn't even intended to kill anyone, yet I was responsible for them. Beetee felt that too.

I put my hand on his cheek and do something I normally hate doing with anyone no matter who they are: I look into his eyes.

"Beetee?"

He looks at me with the same sad look I give him twenty times a day. I don't see it on him often, so when it appears, I tremble.

"Wiress?"

"We are alive. And here. They tried to kill us. They didn't."

Beetee smiles. "And that is why we're strong."

I nod silently.

"One day, we'll come away. Together," I whisper.

Beetee sighs softly, fully in the moment again. "Far and away, to the farthest tree."


	3. III: Twelve

_**A/N: Would anyone care to leave a few words of encouragement, please? Thank you and enjoy! **_

* * *

**Chapter III: Twelve**

As promised, we arrive in District Twelve just after sunset. Because it is winter and light doesn't stay with us as long as it does in summer, we are having the dinner with the Mayor tonight and the speech in front of the crowds tomorrow morning before moving on to Eleven. Plume and Aloysius briefly oversee touch ups to my makeup and dress, but I draw the line when Plume offers to put a violet hair extension under my natural brown locks.

"Oh, well it's just Twelve anyway. Not many people worth it to impress, but do reconsider when we get to One."

What a rude thing to say!

Growing up, Panem History was, of course, compulsory, but aside from the Capitol, the Rebellion, and the story behind our home District, we didn't learn much about the rest of the country. Aside from the assets and industries each District provides, we know virtually nothing. For all I know, District 12 is inside an active volcano.

It's dark as we are escorted to the Justice Building from the train, so I see nothing of the area.

"Beetee, it's so…quiet here," I whisper.

"Not every District is a city. Just…be open-minded about tomorrow, but don't let it make you emotional," he replies.

Emotional? How can I feel emotional about a place I have no connection to?

The Justice Building looks very similar to the District 3 building on the inside, except the seal on the far wall of the atrium is that of Twelve. It has mining gear on it. We are led around for a moment before stopping in a smallish dining room. The table is set for the Mayor, his wife, myself, Beetee, Plume, and Aloysius. Peacekeepers stand in the doorway, which Beetee had also warned me to get accustomed to. A single Peacekeeper guards the Victor's Village back home, but just the outermost door, and only because it's protocol.

A man with a lanky frame and a simple suit comes in, followed by a pallid woman with light blonde hair in a light floral-patterned dress.

"Welcome to District Twelve! I'm Mayor Blackwater, and this is my wife, Dora!" the Mayor says, extending his hand.

Hand-shaking. This extended social tour is going to exhaust me.

I take his hand and mumble "Wiress Ohmstead."

"Pardon?" Mayor Blackwater asks.

Beetee steps in. "She's not used to the attention."

"Well she will have to learn!" Plume interjects. I fight hard not to give her a scowl.

"Beetee! It's good to see you again," Dora Blackwater says, extending her hand and smiling gently.

"It is," he replies. "How is your son?"

"Still having trouble with geology in school," Dora sighs. Beetee shrugs causally and turns back to me, putting a gentle hand on my back to lead me to a chair at the Mayor's right hand.

"Just a warning, Miss Wiress, the Tour starts with Twelve because we are the most underwhelming in terms of what we offer. We're a—how do you put it?—humble place. Nothing like the Capitol."

With this, we are invited to sit, and a few people serve us our first course, a thick stew I vaguely recognize. In the arena, while I hid with Tatsuya, his mentor sent us a can of this same stew. It's hearty, full of lamb meat and potatoes. It is served over rice.

"We don't even do courses here," the Mayor says quietly.

Plume sighs. "It is the culture here."

I quickly bite into a spoon of stew to keep me from verbally showing my disapproval.

Beetee comes in, as usual, to save the day. "Three prefers a simple, hearty meal as well. Speaks to the efficiency and foresight to preserve resources."

The Mayor smiles approvingly. "Well said, Mr. Latier."

Plume's cheeks turn a little red.

The Mayor and his wife ask me questions, and I keep most of my answers to as few words as I can muster. I see no reason to share my life story when most of Panem seems to know as much about me as I do, thanks to Dionysius Flickerman. Instead, I sip generously at the dark red wine being served. One of the people employed to wait on us this evening had to refill my glass three times before the meal concludes (with a simple but delicious wildberry cake). I start feeling hazy and disoriented.

"Your quarters are humble but comfortable. Beetee, you remember where they are?" the Mayor says as he leads us up a set of stairs.

Beetee nods. "I do, Sir."

"Well then, I will have breakfast sent up to your rooms in the morning, and I will see you at the gathering at nine."

Beetee and I simultaneously give a head nod in gratitude before we go our separate ways for the evening.

* * *

The next morning, Plume and Aloysius arrive at my door with my breakfast tray. Seeing two Capitol citizens bring in a serving tray is more startling than it would occur to me to be. It doesn't look natural with either of them. Aloysius' hair is the same bright yellow that the scrambled eggs are.

"Get up, sleepyhead!" Plume chimes in a sing-song type of voice, as if today I'm not going to eulogize two children this morning and every day for the rest of the next few weeks.

I've already gotten up, but instead of ducking under the shower, I'm staying on my small, practical mattress and glaring at the ceiling. This was supposed to be the guests' suite, and yet there was a small patch of mildew in the corner, a few cobwebs here or there, and dust on the armoire. I imagine if Snow were to stay overnight here, he'd stay on the train. But for me, it's more like my room back in the Outer City, so I'm quite fond of the simple coziness of the place.

Plume must've been quite uncomfortable if she didn't sleep on the train. The thought of her tossing about on a thin mattress makes me feel warm inside.

I don't get a chance to swallow more than a few bites of toast before Aloysius starts fooling with my hair. Plume presses two cards into my hands with names that I vaguely recall from half a year ago: Mandel Kaminski and Donna Blackbear. The Tributes from here who participated in my Games. Both died on the first day at the Cornucopia, and both were at least under sixteen years of age. I can't even remember their training scores or anything that had given them a shot at going far. I just remember that watching the footage of their Reaping, I cringed when they put on brave faces and smiled. They were as good at acting as I was.

Oh yes, and the boy was twelve years old.

As I sit in a small chair while Aloysius and Plume prod at my limp hair, trying to make it camera-ready, I read the cards given to me:

_Mandel Kaminski and Donna Blackbear from Twelve were both courageous warriors whose sacrifice we will never forget. Both fought valiantly in the little time they had, and both brought honor to their families and their Districts. We memorialize and remember them today in a solemn ceremony that reminds us of the sacrifices the Capitol makes for our well being, and the love that we give the Capitol in return…_

The words make me feel sick. It's as if Plume had typed a few prompts into an automatic speech generator and took the first cliched, mindless paragraph of pure drivel that popped up. This doesn't respect the Tributes. This is humiliating.

Then I remember: I'm going to be saying this to their families' faces. I feel frozen inside.

Back in Three, when the Tour came through (usually with a Career Victor), the families of the fallen Tributes stood on platforms near the stage, a banner of their lost child behind them. I remember the year we had a tribute make it to the end stage, a girl named Curie that Beetee mentored, who was beheaded violently by the boy who'd go on the win. Even he, a District One Career who'd had a final body count of seven (out of twenty-four!), couldn't look at the crowd or the families, as he stuttered through his generic speech about honoring the Capitol. It was made worse by the fact that Curie had been her family's only child.

How am I supposed to face Lustra Vanderstone's family in One? Or Janus and Juno's in Two? I was present for Janus' death and considered by many to be the cause of Juno's. They were the first twins to be in the arena. At least there'd only be one family to face in Two.

I feel my body get smaller and smaller the more I think about it. Maybe I could disappear entirely.

I don't even look up when Aloysius declares that I'm finished and can get into my plum dress. Plume has to gently nudge my shoulder. I finally look up into the mirror and feel like suppressing a nervous laugh.

"We try not to go overboard for some of the outer Districts," Plume says apologetically. "You understand…"

My hair is in a braid, the loose ends at my temple are curled gently against my ears. It's a mature look, I suppose, and I appreciate the simplicity of it. My makeup is much simpler than the fool's face I wore for the cameras yesterday. Instead of drawing attention to my eyes, the style of my makeup draws the gaze to a darker lip.

I must be honest…I don't hate this look. That's a first in a year that's been nothing but firsts.

I'm escorted out of my room and to the stage that has been set up in front of the Justice Building at exactly 10am. I don't get to see Beetee before I go on. Plume is my support for this part.

"It's all about you, not him. And honestly, once you get to the Capitol you won't want for his company anymore—"

What does that even mean?

I'm being kept behind a nearly-closed door at the Mayor introduces me. I can see peeks of people, and what I see makes my heart fall into my stomach.

In Three, we aren't rich. In fact, some of us are poorer off. But we are millionaires compared to the desolate-looking people waiting for me right now. I can spot a few people dressed in tattered shirts from a long gone era. They are clean-faced, but their hair and clothes are covered in dirt and soot.

"…Wiress Ohmstead, Victor of the 44th Annual Hunger Games!"

A solid but unenthusiastic applause goes up as I feel Aloysius' hand gently nudge me through the door. I take a breath as I see the full crowd for the first time. More of the raggedy citizens in soot-covered clothes. I don't see an overweight person in the group. In fact, most of them make me look fleshy. Especially the children.

On two platforms near the stage are banners with the images of Mandel Kaminski and Donna Blackbear, with their families gathered in front, waiting for my one-minute eulogy. Both of them were apparently swarthy and skinny. Mandel looked a few years younger than his age. Donna, in spite of her dark skin and hair, had blue eyes, which stood out and gave her a curious look. Under Donna's image are an adult woman and two younger girls dressed in matching blue dresses that had seen better days. Under Mandel stands two adults alone, holding each other tightly.

Mandel was not only twelve, but an only child, like Curie had been.

It takes every ounce of strength in my soul to get through the horrible speech Plume has given to me. She warned me as I was being led here not to stray from the script. That isn't a problem. My mouth needs twice the normal effort to utter pre-written words. I don't think I have the capacity in this moment to say my own words.

The speech would take someone like Beetee or Plume about three to five minutes to say. It takes me the better part of ten from my guess. Then, I surprise myself by adding something after I recite the pre-determined conclusion.

"I…I'm sorry. So, so sorry. They deserved better, and so do you."

These words come with more ease than anything I'd said in the past few months. Almost as if my old self, the Wiress who knew how to articulate her feelings more fluently, had returned from vacation.

Silence. Then someone in the crowd does something I don't understand. He takes three fingers and raises them above his head. Then, the people around him follow, and a few moments later, nearly everyone in the crowd, including the families of Mandel Kaminski and Donna Blackbear, are giving me this strange salute.

I don't know what this means, and so I do the only thing my instincts tell me. I turn on my heels and quickly go back inside the Justice Building. Plume is waiting for me, her lips in a pout.

"That was NOT in the script. And you aren't finished out there yet—"

"—oh, let her be done with it. It's obviously hard for her," Aloysius intervenes. I look at him, surprised he'd take the side of empathy over decorum.

I begin shaking violently, hot tears welling up in my eyes. I'm beginning to lose control of myself. A panic is coming, and I have no one to anchor me here. Plume and Aloysius probably don't even understand what's happening to me.

"…get…Beetee…"

I black out as all control within me is gone.

* * *

The first thing I notice is I'm still in the atrium of the Twelve Justice Building, so it probably hasn't been too long. I am still disoriented. Plume is looking down at me with horror. Who's arms am I in?

I'm breathing heavily, hot and heaving. My brain seems dissociated from my mouth, because I'm not thinking about what I say as I say it.

"They hate me."

Everyone shakes their head at me patronizingly.

"Can you walk to the train, honey?" Plume asks delicately.

I have no idea. I let whoever is behind me bring me gently to my feet. I latch on to them for support as we begin making our way to the car that will escort us onward.

According to one of my books, panic attacks are common with an Americana-era diagnosis called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. They can be triggered by anything and by nothing. They can be as mild as a few moments of forgetting to breathe, or as brutal as self-harm or suicide. I was able to identify this in myself fairly quickly, but then again I have a habit of self-diagnosis, so I usually run an idea by Beetee when I find it. He's only ever agreed with my self-diagnoses twice. The first time, he had said he could see me having something called Autism Spectrum Disorder, which explained so much about me when I read about it. The second, was this Post-Traumatic Stress.

Neither of these things are accepted as real-world problems in Panem. Even if they were, there isn't much that can be done about either, I suppose, unless one can afford a pricey doctor.

I don't understand how someone could look at me in the midst of a panic, or how I can't be social around people without a lot of help and prompting, and not see either this autism or PTSD within me. Beetee is the only one who agrees with me, and we discuss it frequently. He says the only way to help me is to understand me, but he keeps everything between us. If Panem finds out I'm "disordered," not even he would know what they'd do to me.

The rest of the day is blurry. I feel an immense headache for all of it as we get close to Eleven, our next stop. I don't let Beetee leave my side. I don't eat. I don't listen to Plume as she tries to explain Eleven's etiquette practices to me for when we arrive. I don't absorb a second of it until she hands me the speech card for Eleven's tributes.

_Cleave Freeman and Pear Thomas from Twelve were—_

"Twelve?" Beetee asks. Plume half-heartedly gasps.

"I forgot to change that part!" she says quietly. "I'll do it before we arrive, I assure you."

_Cleave Freeman and Pear Thomas from Twelve were both courageous warriors whose sacrifice we will never forget. Both fought valiantly—_

These are the exact same words I'd read off like an automaton this morning.

As usual, Beetee reads my thoughts (if such a thing were possible). "This speech is identical to the last one, Plume."

"Of course," she says. "Do you honestly think after what happened this morning we really need to ask her to personalize these things for people she doesn't know anyway?"

Beetee stands up. Even with Plume's heels, Beetee stands equal height to her.

He repeats himself slowly, punctuating ever word with a hard accent, as if every one were a sentence unto itself.

"This. Speech. Is. Identical. To. The Last. One."

Plume doesn't reply this time. It's almost as if she is…intimidated!

"You will fix it to make it different, as you will for each of the rest of the Districts. Furthermore, you will allow me to accompany her onto each stage," Beetee insists. "You are going to ensure this experience goes quickly and as smoothly as possible until we arrive back home. Is this understood?"

Still silent, Plume nods quietly.

"Now if you'll excuse me a moment—" Beetee cuts himself off and walks briskly out of the car. I turn back to look at Plume, who backs away from me and leaves me alone, exiting the car in the other direction.

I still can't process much of what's going on thanks to the fallout from my attack this morning, but one thing does pop into my head. The way Beetee stood at his full height to defend me…made me wish for a moment that he'd stayed with me so I could kiss him.

The feeling passes as we pull in to District Eleven, and I realize the emotional ride is about to begin anew.


	4. IV: The Image of A Victor A

**Chapter IV: The Very Image of a Victor**

With Beetee's everlasting support, I am able to calmly deliver Plume's speeches for the rest of the District Tour. I am amazed at how different each one looks, right down to what people wear and the varying degrees of how they react to me. District Ten is sunny, warm for winter, and smells of livestock dung. Something about the somewhat-decayed urban landscape of Eight reminds me of home. Four is bright and energetic, and I give my presentation on a beach. One is like stepping into a fantasyland where everyone is a Prince or Princess, only less so than the Capitol.

My only other hard time is, of course, in Six. Beetee convinced Plume (who may be afraid of him now) to allow me some freedom in what I say in regards to Tatsuya. I wrote something down the night before and let Beetee look over it. He approved. I take the paper with me onstage, and as I speak I don't let my eyes stray from it, because I know what will happen if and when I do. While I am able to control myself throughout my quick eulogy, I do begin to cry when I finally look up.

Tatsuya's face is smiling at me gently from his projected image. Underneath it, a much older man using a cane to help him stand is bowing his head as if in prayer. Next to him is a child no more than five years old, holding his free hand, her long black hair tied underneath a headscarf.

Tatsuya had no parents, I realize. Only a disabled grandfather and a very young sister. Neither one could possibly care for the other, and Tatsuya must have been their livelihood. The only person who could and did take care of them died in my arms on public screens all around them.

I don't mention the kiss that all of Panem saw. I don't mention how Tatsuya had led me on in order to make himself look good for the sponsors. I only say that he was a selfless man with the heart of a warrior who'd died saving me and trying to save his District partner, Alesta.

Beetee knows that when I go to my bed on the train afterwards, for once, I want to be completely alone. I can't believe this horrid Tour is only halfway over.

* * *

Aside from Six, the part of the Tour I dread the most is the Capitol party. After being overwhelmed with a ten-course banquet and infinite brightly-colored lights, jewels, feathers, and unnaturally white smiles in District One, I am exhausted.

District One is still lackluster compared to the Capitol.

I only got a taste of it during Training in the summer. Most of the fanfare I was exposed to surrounding the Games was only during the Parade and the interviews with Dionysius Flickerman. Now that I'm here and getting ready for a true evening among the social elites, I'm beginning to wish someone else was here in my place.

Plume draws a solid line at what I wear. No plum dress. No flat shoes. No simple, functional hairstyles. Instead, she and Aloysius design a gown for me out of the luminescent material I'd worn during the Tributes Parade. It has a sweeping, floor-length skirt so wide I may have to walk through doors sideways. There are no sleeves or neckline. The dress is a bright lime green, with a forest green sash going across my chest and knotting at the hip. Giving up on my thin, limp hair, Aloysius calls for a wig, already decorated, for my head. It's laughable, but also heavy and cumbersome. It has thin strings of lights woven throughout, and feathers popping up from the left side, right above my ear. I decide internally that when this is all over, I'm going to cut my hair to my ears.

But even the wig is nothing compared to the heels Plume gets for me. A teal color that complements the dress (even though no one will be seeing it under the yards of tulle comprising my skirt), they bind to my feet and ankles with thin straps, and the heels are easily six-inches high. Within five minutes of wearing them, my calves ache. I hobble around, barely able to keep my balance.

This is going to be the longest night of my life, at least since the night before the Games began six months ago.

After I'm made up to look like a bouffant porcelain doll, I waddle through the door of my room. Beetee is standing in the living room of my quarters, not dressed up at all. He is, however, clearly hiding something behind his back.

He takes a moment to observe me. A smile crawls across his face, and after a moment, a low giggle rises up and escapes. For some reason, this evokes the same reaction with me, and we share a rare moment of genuine laughter at my ridiculous getup.

"Please don't be offended, but you look like a tree," Beetee snorts, making me laugh harder.

"At least I know if I fall in water, this will keep me floating," I reply, gesturing to the comically wide skirt. Beetee's laugh comes from deep in his chest, and that's how I know how it's real. It's a moment I wish I could live in forever. Laughter is a luxury.

Beetee, still chuckling, takes my hand in his and twirls me around. The skirt is so big I can almost feel a wind resistance as I try to rotate once. Then, my heart leaps as I lose my balance. My heel has caught the material and tripped me. Luckily, Beetee catches my shoulder.

Once our giggles have subsided, Beetee looks around as if making sure we are alone. Then, he gestures to me with a finger on his lips, telling me to keep his secret. He takes out my dependable black flats from behind his back.

I grin. "Plume will be angry."

"To hell with her," he answers.

I've never heard Beetee say a word harsher than 'damn' before. It almost makes me want to start laughing again.

"She'll notice how short I am," I mention. Beetee is already digging under my skirts, looking for my feet.

"Walk on your toes until it's too late to turn back," he suggests.

He finds my feet, and it takes nearly a minute for him to completely untie and remove the torture-shoes. My calves cry out in relief the second my heels hit the floor. He slips the flats on, and I finally have a bit of comfort. I almost feel like I can survive the night.

"I can't be with you. Plume is going to guide you through the motions this time," says Beetee once he emerges from under the tent I'm wearing.

I've known this since Plume told me as much this morning, but it doesn't mean I'm not disappointed.

"What advice did she give you about tonight?"

I think back to when she was wrestling me into the dress.

"She said to be the very image of a Victor," I answer. "Be social, dance, eat, and smile."

Beetee nods and takes my hand in his, drawing me close so what he is about to say won't be heard by anyone else who may enter the room.

"Don't…don't worry about being social or polite. In fact, try not to be."

I'm surprised. This doesn't sound at all like what I expect him to say.

"I can explain it later, but don't go out of your way to be desirable to anyone, okay? Don't ask questions right now, but I'll expla—"

"—are you ready for your big night?" Plume calls out, strutting in like a peacock showing off to it's potential mates. She stops as she sees us in our rather close and intimate huddle. She chuckles. "And you wondered why people here think you're a couple!"

Beetee and I break apart, and I quickly remember to stand on my toes as Plume approaches to give me a once-over. She doesn't notice any difference in my height. Beetee nods affirmingly.

"Well, we're on time for being fashionably late, so let's go!" Plume swiftly puts her arm on my back to guide me outside. I manage to catch one last glimpse of Beetee before I'm shoved into the carriage set to take me to the party at the Presidential Mansion.

Beetee's face startles me. It's not a look of hope or assurance. It's a look of concern.

* * *

The horns blow the Panem National Anthem so loudly my ears ring as a footman takes my hand and helps me and my giant dress out of the carriage. There is a red carpet at my feet, and the path leads through a large, shimmering iron gate, where everyone is lined up and waiting for me.

Plume arrives at my side, and I look down and realize that she has chosen a leather sausage casing as a dress for the evening. It's so tight that not a single curve of her body is left to the imagination. It's an alarming red color, sparkles all over, and her heels have laces that wind up her legs all the way past her thighs. The sleeves are puffed almost as wide as my dress. Still, as tight as it is, it still must be easier walking around in than mine.

The people who line the sides of the red carpet as we walk by do not hold back. They reach out hands to touch me all over. I'm accosted on all sides with strange hands. They grin like children and act as if I'm the President himself. People wave and shout to get my attention. I look down at the hem of my dress and keep walking with my head down. I feel like a piece of roast being delivered to a starving crowd.

Once the walk is over and I'm officially at the party in the President's courtyard, Plume takes me aside.

"You can do better than that. I can't be glue to your side much longer. Just promise me you'll stay presentable and act cordially?"

I think of Beetee's hint, and I decide to play along with Plume, if nothing else, to get her away from me. I nod obediently, and Plume takes this as a sign to wander off and greet some acquaintances.

I'm alone in the middle of a crowded room where I know no one. Before the Games, this very scenario was what haunted my nightmares more than almost anything else.

The courtyard is enormous. The Mansion behind it is even more gargantuan, with elaborate pillars, carvings, and winding staircases all about. A reflecting pool runs down the middle, with a large fountain spitting artificially-blue water all ways. A sea of neon colors, feathers, dapper coats, teased hair, and thick, cakey makeup reaches out on all sides. Despite being outside after sunset, the party is brightly lit, and the overwhelming noises come not only from the hum of party goers chatting with one enough, but from a grand string orchestra set up near the dance floor, deeper in the crowd.

Looking for a quick escape, I spot the enormous buffet table, and decide to feign interest in food. Maybe people will see me eat and leave me be.

The table is stocked with more food than I'd ever seen in my life. Silver platters of meats, cheeses, sandwiches, fruits, pies, cakes, pastries, appetizers, and flutes of different colors of liquor and wine line the table, each course decorated with vegetable garnishes in the shapes of flowers and birds, and vials of condiments in between each platter. Taking a shiny plate, I act invested in the offerings before me, and fill it up to the point of overflow with the simplest dishes I can find. None of the foods are labeled, but I think I've taken roast beef, rice or some kind of tiny grain pilaf, a pureed vegetable that's orange, a few grapes, and a slice of some kind of pie. The presentation of it all is so detailed and complicated it's hard to identify anything for certain. I also take a flute of pink liquor.

The tables are tall enough for people to stand at, so I try and find one towards the edge of the crowd. I'm fortunate to find one that's empty, and I put down my plate. I am quite thirsty, and perhaps a little alcohol will help me relax…

…I nearly gag on the liquid as I drink it back in one motion. It's not wine, nor is it a hard liquor. I taste nothing of alcohol in it. Instead, it's a too-sweet concoction with a metallic aftertaste. It takes every ounce of my will not to spit it out.

"Oh my goodness, Miss Wiress!"

A lady I don't know creeps up on me and shouts the greeting right into my ear. It startles me so that I almost feel the need to defend myself. The woman, in spite of her lavish blue dress and collar that extends higher than her head in the back, looks harmless.

"You've just arrived, haven't you? Are you that full already?"

I must give her an odd look, because she indicates my glass.

"That isn't wine, dear," the woman says softly. "It's for…well…I guess you'll find out in about ten minutes."

My mouth opens, ready to ask what she's talking about, but she continues without stopping for breath.

"I do hope that you'll dance with my son. He's nearby! Perhaps now? It would be an honor for him to have the first dance with a Victor!"

"S…son?" I stutter.

The strange lady nods and grabs my wrist, yanking me away from my the table and onto the dance floor. So much for hiding behind food.

She brings me to a young blonde man dressed in a suit with a more of a simple design than most people here. The only standout feature of his presentation is a large gold pocket watch hanging from his breast pocket. He looks to be older than Beetee or I but perhaps barely over twenty or twenty-two. He doesn't bear any odd hairstyle, makeup or markings, and other than the slightly garish watch, he isn't wearing any Capitol-style accessories.

He sees the lady approach with me and bows at the waist in my general direction.

"Plutarch, darling! Here she is!" the lady calls out to the young man. She forces my hand into the boy's. "Have fun! No stepping on her toes, son!"

I'm still disoriented as the brash lady, who still hasn't told me her name, abandons the two of us and flutters off on her own. I look up at this Plutarch, and I'm surprised to observe an almost apologetic look about him.

"My apologies, Miss Wiress," he says evenly. "My mother can be a bit insistent. I suspect it's because she wants me to marry well."

There's something sincere about his annoyance at his mother, and I allow him to put an arm around my waste and lead me in a slow dance. However, he can't get too close to me thanks to my obnoxious dress.

"Do you want that?" I ask softly.

"Excuse me?" Plutarch asks.

Of course my voice is too soft! "…to marry well?"

Plutarch nods in understanding. "I don't want to marry at all. I find I don't develop those kinds of feelings for anyone anyway."

I know what he means, but I don't say so. I do take a little comfort in knowing he won't be trying to flirt with me.

"My mother will get over it one day," Plutarch continues. "It's not about romance. It's about station."

"What's that?" I ask. I feel like Plutarch and Beetee have a similar blunt-but-charismatic way of talking. Perhaps that's why I'm responding to him.

"Mother is obsessed with me starting a good career here. Only way to get ahead is through connections when you're my age and don't have a reputation yet."

"You don't seem very…um…interested in all of this," I note. Plutarch smiles.

"You're very observant," he says, almost as if he's taking a mental note. "I'm not one for ostentation, but I know what I want."

"What's that?"

"I think I want to be a Gamemaker," Plutarch replies. Suddenly, my growing trust in the man drops.

I don't say anything, but I don't have to.

"I know you are probably already judging me for making that my aspiration."

I blurt out, "Yes."

Plutarch chuckles and takes a moment to sweep me around the floor. Other dancing couples have to clear away for my dress to follow through.

"Well, in a place like this, you need to be in a position that high in order to make an impression on people," he reasons. "Maybe pride is my sin."

"I think it's the sin of everyone who lives here."

"Sadly, I think that's true."

I look at his watch. It's quite pretty. The face is a shiny white with an almost pearl or opal-like sheen. The numbers are elaborately designed and hand-painted.

"Like the watch? It was my grandfather's," he offers.

"I like clocks," I answer.

Plutarch smiles. "Me too."

Suddenly, an intense wave of nausea hits me all at once. It's almost as painful as the acid rain that burned as it fell down on my in the arena. Without decorum or care, I push myself away from Plutarch and make for the bathroom…

…only I don't know where a lavatory would be located in this giant place. I'd better hurry, because I'm definitely about to—

-I'm throwing up, and throwing up hard into some receptacle that appeared suddenly before me. Pain, heaving, but nothing comes out, as I still haven't eaten anything. All that comes up is a little bit of bile and some of the pink liquid that I now know caused this to happen to me.

Retching on an empty stomach in the middle of a crowded room of Capitol citizens waiting to meet me. What a shining moment of glory at the end of my Victory Tour. Plume will be delighted.

At least I'm doing what Beetee said to do: ensuring that I'm not desirable.


	5. V: The Image of A Victor B

**Chapter V: The Very Image of a Victor, Part II**

The nausea subsides as quickly as it came, but the humiliation leaves a hangover.

I look up from the planter I had just heaved into, and the party has come to a halt on my behalf. Everyone, in their massive gowns and wigs, are looking at me as if I'm an animal in a menagerie. I suppose I am something novel to them, but that doesn't mean my sickness should be subject to public fascination.

I want to cry, or laugh, or sink into the floor. I can see Plutarch standing in the middle of the dance floor, an amused look on his face as he mercifully turns away. Everything begins to blur as I stumble to my feet.

About ten people simultaneously converge on me with fake sympathy, and I try not to choke on the claustrophobic air as they tighten in around me.

"Dear, are you alright?"

"You're only supposed to drink ONE of those!"

"You're supposed to wait until you're full, darling."

"The vomitoria are on the far side of the courtyard, silly!"

"That's enough!"

Plume breaks through the crowd and makes her way to me. "Really, the poor thing isn't used to all of this! Leave her be."

She puts a surprisingly matronly arm around my shoulder and leads me away, to a somewhat empty area behind an artificial tree painted a bright blue. I brace myself for a scolding, but one doesn't come. Instead, Plume looks at me with pity.

"How are you feeling now?"

I shrug silently, still processing the disaster.

"Well, I'm sorry I forgot to tell you about the Juice," she said quietly. "I hate it when the caterers put the Juice among the wines. It's dangerous when not used properly."

I still don't know what she's talking about. I must be getting pale, however, because Plume bites her lips and sighs woefully.

"If you don't wish to stay for the whole party, I can probably arrange for you to leave after the Presidential speech. These people will party until dawn whether or not you are among them. I imagine Snow will want to talk to you for a moment, but he will be wanted elsewhere before too long," Plume plans. "President Snow will give his address very shortly. In fact, I was called to bring you up to the steps."

I look where Plume indicates. A set of stone steps with a grand wrought-iron railing lead up to a threshold framed by two doric columns. The doorway is obscured by thick, red curtains.

"He will be welcoming the last guests in a moment, and then he'll deliver the brief address. You will be standing just next to him on the steps here," Plume begins directing me through the crowd, still displaying false sympathy for me while greedily taking in their third plates of chicken farfalle and stuffed lobster. For a brief moment, I'm thankful for the wide skirts. They do manage to give me some space. The crowd parts widely for Plume and I as we make our way to our places.

"It will be another moment or so—" Plume begins, before a small voice from directly behind her interrupts her thought.

A very small lady, dressed in a navy blue hobble skirt and white blouse with sleeves that look like they need an air pump to be puffed so large, comes out from behind Plume. Her most noticeable feature is her eyelashes, which are hot pink and extend far beyond her natural ones. They make her look untrustworthy.

Then again, I don't feel as if many Capitol citizens are so worthy of my trust.

"I'm sorry," she chirps with her melodic voice. "I wanted to meet you before my husband arrived. I'm Madame Tryphaena Snow, First Lady of Panem."

Madame Snow extends a hand to me, which is so delicate I am almost afraid to take it.

"She's a shy one, isn't she?" Madame Snow remarks to Plume, who smiles and nods.

"Might I say, Madame, you look wonderful," Plume responds. I fight the urge to roll my eyes at the flattery.

"Yes! It took ages to lose the baby weight," Madame Snow sighs. "Two whole weeks."

Two weeks? In Three, such a feat would be impossible, although us citizens of Three never pay much attention to the aesthetics surrounding childbirth. Then again, Madame Snow was so tiny perhaps it wasn't as difficult for her.

Plume leans over to me in an aside. "Madame Snow gave birth to a son just before we left for the Tour. Cassio-Gaius Coriolanus. He is a darling!"

Madame Snow sticks her nose up with pride. "I gave him a boy on the first try! Berenice couldn't do that."

Plume nods and gives me another aside, as if she's acting as a translator between myself and someone speaking an entirely different language (which she may as well be). "Berenice was Snow's first wife. Died quite suddenly in her sleep, poor thing."

"After only giving my husband two girls," Madame Snow added. "After she died, he married me within the month. After all, what is more natural than a man who wants a son?"

_Seems a little sudden, a young woman who dies as soon as she realizes she cannot give her husband what he wants,_ I think. But I hold my tongue.

"I imagine you are overwhelmed by our ways here," Madame Snow. "I was too at first. Allow me to let you in on a secret…I came from District One! I know what it is like to live on less. But you may want to get used to it, as you'll be here quite often from now on."

Hardships from District One? The only hardship I can imagine a girl suffering in One is not having enough sapphires to complement her eyes.

Before anything else can be said, fanfare sounds as people clear the doorway an raise the curtains. Immediately, Madame Snow stands to attention and puts on a Cheshire grin. After two escorts emerge, President Snow comes into view for a toast.

He is as imposing and intimidating as I remember from six months ago. His hair is graying, his beard sharply trimmed. He takes a moment after the fanfare ends to accept the thunderous applause from the crowds before gently throwing his hands up for silence. He looks briefly to me, then begins.

"Citizens of Panem, we have the privilege this evening to honor yet another brave soldier who fought valiantly in the Hunger Games, and now is a symbol of our great country. Since the Dark Times, each District citizen who comes to us and wins our favor has seen the truth of the Capitol's generosity and love, and tonight the honored comes to us from one of our most valued Districts: District Three, who provides us with essential technological advances, which make our lives easier every day. So I ask everyone to raise a glass in toasting our newest Victor, the lovely Wiress Ohmstead of District Three. May she ever remain a living symbol of the Capitol's courage and strength!"

"To Wiress!" some in the crowd cheer. Everyone, including Snow, takes a sip of champagne before applauding again.

After the brief speech, Snow approaches Plume and I. Madame Snow falls in line behind him, suddenly looking very sheepish.

"It is good to see you again, Miss Wiress," he says to me.

It takes my every ounce of my strength to look the man in the eye. I feel chilly.

"Are you still so quiet? As I recall, at your crowning ceremony you didn't speak a word to me."

Plume intercedes. "Her voice is recovered, but she is a bit intimidated by all of this."

"Yes, I imagine you are. But is silence such a bad thing? In Panem, peace comes from people knowing their places, and which cog in the wheel they represent. Speaking out of turn was what led to the Dark Days. Miss Wiress knows this," Snow reasons. I bow my head.

"Well, I won't keep you any longer. There is still so much for Miss Wiress to see. Have a pleasant evening. Do enjoy yourself." President Snow and his wife recede back through the curtains, which are drawn behind them.

I look at Plume desperately. I want nothing more than to leave this very minute. Luckily, she gets the hint.

"Indeed, perhaps you are exhausted. Let's get you home."

For the first time that evening, I exhibit some enthusiasm and pick up my skirts absentmindedly to descend the stairs, when Plume puts a firm hand on my shoulders, stopping me.

"Wiress, where are your heels?!"

* * *

"So they drink it so they can empty their stomachs for more food?" I ask with disbelief.

Beetee and I are sitting on the floor of my bedroom in the hospitality suite we share for this last leg of the Tour. The second I came back, I ripped off the marshmallow dress, threw the wig across the room so hard it broke a lamp, and slipped into a set of pajamas made out of a soft, fuzzy, warm material. It's as if I've gone from Hell to Heaven.

"It's true," Beetee affirms. "At least during my Tour, someone had the good sense to warn me before I drank any of it."

"Disgusting," I say softly.

"I know."

We sit in silence a moment until Beetee breaks it with a question. "How did she react? I notice you came home a bit earlier than I expected."

"She was more embarrassed when she discovered I wasn't wearing her shoes. Black and neon don't match," I say. Beetee laughs.

"You were quite a sight in that dress," he admits.

"She made me stay for Snow's speech and a handshake. Snow…he makes me feel uncomfortable."

Beetee shrugs. "Did you meet anyone interesting at all?"

I tell him about the man with the pocket watch who wanted to be a Gamemaker, and how he didn't seem like the rest of the party goers.

"Don't take it so seriously. Growing up in a place like this can affect every part of you," he assures me.

"It makes me wonder what Plume would be like if she grew up in Three." I try to imagine Plume without her multicolored wigs and dresses, wearing something simple like Mommy would. "I...I don't even know what her natural hair color is."

Beetee chuckles. "Do you want to know why they wear a lot of wigs? It's because back when hair dye was the fashion, the chemicals from repeated treatments would make their hair fall out entirely. That wasn't too long ago. She may be bald under those wigs."

"Seems entirely reasonable," I add.

Now I remember to ask Beetee about what he'd said before I left: "Why did you say I shouldn't present well tonight?"

Beetee remains silent a moment, then looks at me with pity.

"You don't need to worry about that now—"

"—NO!" I insist. "Please don't treat me like a child, you're the only one who doesn't! No one told me I was going to retch in front of the elite of Panem if I drank from the wrong glass. No one told me I was going to have to wear that ridiculous costume. Just tell me, okay?"

It may the first time since the Games I spoke so much in one breath. Even Beetee looks a little alarmed.

"That's fair. You're right, I'm sorry."

"Thank you," I respond. "Now tell me."

Beetee takes a breath in a manner that suggests he wants to restrain something inside him. "The past Victors you know of, the two of us aside…what do they have in common these days?"

It doesn't take me long to think of a few things. "They mentor other Tributes."

"Right. What else?"

"They visit the Capitol all the time, some of them even look like Capitol people now."

"Exactly."

I think of a few examples from what I'd seen in the summer. While the Victors from One and Two always looked like they belonged among the elites, many of the others, especially from more recent Games, were also polished and charismatic. A girl from Nine, whose Games were one of the first I was allowed to watch, had entered the Games looking like she came from a hovel in the middle of a prairie. A year later, she was strutting all over the Capitol in high fashion, enjoying her new status and relishing every second of every party she went to and every appearance she made on Dionysius Flickerman's show. I thought it odd at the time, but never dwelled on it.

"If the Capitol decides a Victor is desirable enough, they are given a different role…they are prostituted to whoever bids the highest for them," Beetee says, he voice getting low and soft.

I'd read enough stories to know what he was talking about.

"Can't they say no if they don't want to?"

Beetee solemnly shakes his head. "What do you think they would do to someone who refused?"

Immediately, I understood.

"Will they kill Edison and Daddy? If I say no?"

Before there's enough time to melt into the ground from anxiety at the very thought of my having sex for money and status with strange Capitol men and women, Beetee smiles and puts an arm around me.

"You retched in the middle of their party. I don't think any of them will be interested. They are, as you can imagine, shallow people."

I am instantly relieved. Beetee is correct. I did a fine job protecting myself tonight, and I didn't even mean to.

"Did they make you do that?" I ask. Beetee shakes his head.

"I'm not their type either," he says, a slight hint of mischief in his voice.

"What did you do? To stop their interest?"

Beetee laughs as he recalls his own Victory Party. "I guess you could say I did the opposite of what you did. I talked too much. Every time someone spoke to me, I leapt off into details about the Indestructible Conducting Wire I'm planning to create and what uses it could be applied to. I'll admit, a lot of it was improvised babbling, but it did the trick."

I will admit, that sounds like a Beetee solution.

"Anyways, Capitol citizens hope for big, strong, charismatic Victors. Gamemakers rarely count on winners using their minds as a weapon over their swords."

"I'm tired," I blurt out.

"The Victory Tour is exhausting. Would you like me to-?"

"—always," I reply. Beetee helps me too my feet, and we both crawl into the giant, too-soft bed. The light pollution coming from the window keeps the room almost as if the lamps were turned on, emanating from the party, still raging, at the Presidential mansion.

* * *

The train ride home takes an entire day and night, especially seeing as we are briefly delayed by the massive departure breakfast the Capitol throws for me. I decide, for once, to eat my fill. After all, I still have an empty stomach from the terrible night before, and I won't be eating this richly again for a while. I manage to finish a plate piled high with sausages, three different kind of omelet, and a rich toasted bread filled with dried fruit and spices (which is by far my favorite Capitol food yet). I wash it down with two cups of tea, which is overly sweetened the way the Capitol likes it to the point where the tea flavor is hardly detectable.

Eventually, the train arrives home, and I'm greeted at the station by well-wishers from my District, who admire Beetee and I for bringing them the rare glory of victory in the Games. Most of them are young. Sometimes I fear that a future volunteer is among them.

My apartment in Victor's Village is a welcome sight for us both. Beetee chooses to stay with me a few more hours before returning to his penthouse, I guess to make sure I'm adjusting to being home again. We retreat to my library, and as I lie back in my chaise, Beetee pulls up a seat of his own with a book he's grabbed off the shelf. It's an Americana-era classic, though it was written in a different country.

"There was no possibility of taking a walk that day," he begins. I lean back and prepare to let my mind wander off to Thornfield Manor and the world of many centuries ago, when Beetee stops short and raises his hand to his jaw.

"Beetee?" I ask mildly.

"It's okay, I think I chipped my back molar on something in the Capitol," he answers. "I may summon your father up to my apartment tomorrow to have a look."

"You could go downstairs," I suggest.

Beetee shakes his head gently. "I think you know why that's a bad idea, Wire."

Every since my family moved into Victor's Village with me, Daddy has set up his office on the ground floor of the building with the Capitol's permission. It took some renovating, less to set up the office and more to ensure that there was no way for any patients to sneak into places where they aren't allowed (like our apartments).

Daddy's business has tripled in the six months since my Games, and that seems to be a large part of why I feel a rift grow between the two of us every day. Daddy seems to relish in his new success. It's almost Capitol-like in the way he behaves. I don't know if he's even the same man who, less than a year ago, nearly cried at my Reaping. It has been a dramatic shift in my life, the fact that my body and mind are repulsed by a lot of what my family has become. Second only to the Games themselves, my family has been the biggest hit to my sanity this year. Mom dismisses it as puberty and the shock of such major adjustments. I don't have the heart to tell her that it is hers and Daddy's fault.

"Just don't expect me to be there," I say. Beetee laughs.

"Of course not."


	6. VI: Unnatural Rain

**Chapter VI: Unnatural Rain**

This morning, it is unseasonably warm and sunny. Late winter weather in Three is typically gray, with rain and ice. Snow is somewhat less common, but we will usually have a bit of accumulation by February. I don't like the cold and snow, so when we have a rare day like this, I usually try to enjoy it as much as possible, so I am up on the roof of the building with a book, a folding chair, and a thermos of tea. The sun warms my skin, and the sensation feels like a welcome embrace. The ambient noise of the world rushing about its' business below me seems to be quieter than normal. Perhaps many people have taken the day off to enjoy the gift of a premature spring day.

Beetee is downstairs in his penthouse having his chipped tooth examined by Daddy. I really don't care to watch Daddy's work, and neither does Mom. It's bad enough watching pain being purposefully inflicted on people, but now that I have a strained relationship with most of my family, being downstairs and watching Daddy would likely double my own discomfort.

The one relationship I kind of want back is my brother's, but his reaction to my new situation is the opposite of Daddy's: he actively avoids me. Before the Games, Edison was my protector as I think any big brother would be. I was usually left alone in school, but on the occasion that someone felt the need to bully me, Edison wouldn't be far away, telling my assailant to back off. Edison is three years older than I am, and when I was Reaped, it was his last year in the Reaping pool, so from now on he is safe. I know that before the Games, he had planned to apply for an inter-District passport so that he may go to the Capitol to be trained as a weapons tech designer for District Two. He probably could have used my name to get a passport to anywhere in the country with little hassle, but as far as I know he hasn't taken such advantage yet.

It occurs to me in that moment that maybe watching his baby sister fight to the death has affected him in a similar way to myself. Have I been so focused on myself that I've forgotten him, too?

The thought puts me on feet with a sudden urge to talk to Edison. Unless he is assisting Daddy with Beetee, he will likely be down in the apartment below mine.

I leave my book and tea on the chair and quickly head downstairs. I knock on the door to my family's apartment. There is no reply. I knock again. I hear a muffled sound. If it is someone telling me they are on their way, the world are inaudible.

After one more insistent knock, the door opens. A man I don't recognize is standing in the doorway. He's rather handsome, with dark brown skin and hair that is a bit longer than the style most men of Three wear. His shirt looks like it has been quickly thrown on. The buttons are mismatched.

"Who is it?" called a more familiar voice from behind the stranger.

"You sister," the stranger answers.

"It's ok," Edison calls.

The stranger steps aside and allows me entry. I gaze at him with some suspicion.

"You looking for Dad?" Edison calls from the sofa across the room. "He's up with Beetee."

"I know," I mutter. "I wanted you."

"Oh."

The stranger is clearly uncomfortable. "I should go."

"You don't have to, Ford," Edison suggests.

The stranger shakes his head. "No, you two should talk. I'll be by tomorrow. Nice meeting you at last, Wiress."

His voice is a little shaky, but cordial enough, so I give a little head bow.

"Yes."

With those parting words, the man leaves and gently shuts the door behind him.

"Sorry," I say quietly.

From the sofa, Edison shrugs and gets to his feet. "I didn't expect you. Do you want some tea or something?"

"No."

"Then what are you here for?" Edison's question is accompanied by a slight annoyance in his voice. I almost regret being there.

"What that a boyfriend?" I ask, referring to the handsome stranger.

Edison shrugs. "Not really. Just a cure for the boredom. Sit down."

I join him on the sofa, but I don't feel any more comfortable than when I was standing up.

I suddenly notice that Edison, while always a bit on the thin side, is closer to gaunt than he's been since I've known him. His skin is pallid. His eyes are sunken in, and his hair is limp and unruly, falling below his ears. He doesn't look like is about to turn nineteen in a month. Instead, he looks about to retire in a month.

"Are you sick?" I ask.

Edison glares at me through bloodshot eyes. "No…I mean…maybe…no."

"You are. And you won't tell me about it because you hate me now."

Edison gives me a queer look. "You think that?"

"How…how can I not?"

"Wirey, what's wrong with you?" he blurts out.

My old self begins to come out, the self that responded to emotional upheaval with ranting instead of silence. "What's wrong with me? How about the fact that I've talked to you TWICE since last summer? How about the fact that I know you don't like being around me anymore, or that you look so sick but won't say a word to me? What do you think I am?"

Edison is silent, but he chuckles under his breath. "Don't…don't assume I hate you, okay?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

I pout my lips and give Edison my best attempt at a death stare until he explains himself.

"I just thought you wanted to be on your own," Edison says weakly. "I wanted to give you space."

That's a lie, and I know it instantly. "How considerate of you," I respond. "Now, why don't you tell me the real reason you won't visit me?"

Edison looks angry with me for talking back to him, especially with such vitriol. It's uncomfortably quiet for a moment.

"Fine, then. The real reason? You're becoming inconsiderate. A jerk. To all of us."

My mouth falls open at the insult. "What?"

"You don't think I see the way you treat Dad? Like some inferior? You treat us all that way. You treat Beetee as more of a brother than me! You cut Mom and Dad out almost entirely. They worry about you, Wirey. And I—I can't watch as you tear us all apart!"

I match his anger. "You honestly think that's what I'm doing? That I'm acting like some Capitol person by sticking my nose up at you? Have you even HEARD some of the things our father says? He jokes! He makes fun of how famous and successful he is because of me! He laughs at the good things that are happening to us because I won the Games! None of you will EVER know what it's like being there. Watching people die, and in turn knowing people are watching you too!"

Edison bites his lip and nods. "You're right. I don't. But you just because I wasn't there doesn't mean I don't deal with…with SHIT of my own."

He darts into the hallway to retrieve something. It takes only a moment. He returns with a small clear vial, which he aggressively tosses at me.

The white label on the side of the small bottle reads _Morphling tonic, 20ml._

I frown. "What does this have to do with anything? Daddy uses this on patients who have surgery all the time. He's probably giving Beetee some right now."

"It's not his, it's mine," Edison says, his voice hard. "Dad uses a watered-down morphling mixture as an anesthetic. This is pure."

It all falls into place. Edison is shooting morphling recreationally. I can't believe it.

"…why? Edison…I…" My words leave me again.

"That man you saw walk out…I get it from him in exchange for—"

"—please don't finish that thought," I shoot back. "How long?"

Edison sits down again, his initial fury subsiding. "I took my first dose after you came out of the tunnel in the area covered in blood and dragging the body of that liar boyfriend of yours."

"Don't talk about him like that," I insist.

"It's the damn truth! I took some to take my mind off the fact that I was thinking I was watching my baby sister die! After that, it became all I had. Even after you came home, I needed it because Mom was burying herself in work, Daddy was joking around like an ass, and you were always off with Beetee or making appearances on national news. Where the hell am I supposed to fit into this new world, Wirey? You don't need me, Mom and Dad don't need me, and no one else cares to look at me! Yes, I wasn't there in the arena. I've never killed anyone. But don't you think it's hard realizing the little girl I held as a baby and played games with as a kid has a body count to her name is hard?"

"That isn't fair," I reply, my voice beginning to crack. "Am I monster to you now? Is that it?"

Edison grunted. "Beetee seems like a nice boy…but he killed six kids on purpose. You set two girls on fire at the endgame."

"And you hold us responsible? What were we supposed to do, then?"

"I thought you were the moral compass for all of us," Edison says, punctuating his words by snatching back the vial of morphling from me. "I was hoping you would win by hiding out. But seeing you come home from killing people only to treat us as plebeians put me over the edge!"

"I can't believe that's how you see it."

"Well, it is."

"So," I take a breath. "You would give up our relationship and our family, as well as your future, for morphling because it makes you feel better?"

Edison doesn't speak. "Sometimes," he whispers. "I don't think you're my sister. Sometimes I think she died in that arena. Sometimes…I wish that's how it was."

I can't bear to hear this. I can't. I get to my feet, deciding I can't handle this anymore, but before I turn for the door, Edison continues.

"You aren't okay anymore," he adds. "I saw it very clearly when you came home. You used to not go out because it just didn't interest you. Now it's like you're afraid. It's like something in your head is deteriorating, and it's making you suffer from inside. You mumble things under your breath like a crazy person. I don't want to keep watching that until it kills you."

"It won't" I snap. "Not before the morphling kills you first."

"What morphling?" Daddy asks.

Neither of us had noticed him come in. He's got two large suitcases with him, one hold most of his dental tools, and the other probably holds the portable drill he uses for the rare house call.

"Dad…how long have you been here?" asks Edison.

"I just came in," he answers. "Beetee's fine. Had to give him a root canal, but he's asleep from the anesthetic now. Wiress, I'd check on him in a few hours."

I nod silently. I look to Edison, who's look is drastically different from before daddy walked in.

_He's pleading with me!_ I think. _He doesn't want me to tell Daddy._

But I have no desire to stay in that room another second, anyway. So, I say one last thing to my brother.

"As you wish. I'll never talk to you again."

After my declaration, I leave the apartment and hold my tears until I reach my room. I go directly into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I strip naked and slide under the water, curling up into a ball and feeling the stream soak me through like an unnatural rain.

I suddenly don't care about how lovely it is outside.

* * *

I nearly forget to check up on Beetee entirely. After spending an hour under the shower, I crawl into bed naked and lie alone with my thoughts until it's almost sunset.

What gives Edison the nerve to accuse me of being a pawn for the Capitol, or an unashamed murderer who thinks only of herself? Is it the morphling giving him those ideas?

_Well, he can have them,_ I conclude. _Have it his way._

It is only when I think that Beetee may have some answers that I remember my duty to make sure he isn't in any pain from his surgery. Reluctantly, I get out of bed, my body feeling heavy and aching. I spend about five seconds choosing clothes to go upstairs, deciding on the first loose pair of pants I can find, along with a light black top and a Capitol-gifted silk robe with a green pattern of curling vines up the wide sleeves. My hair is a frizzy mess, and my eyes are bloodshot from the crying, but I know Beetee won't care.

I let myself into his penthouse with the key he gave me. The whole apartment is dark as the sun sets, but I know my way around it enough to know where steps and obstacles lie without turning on any unnecessary lights. I make my way into Beetee's bedroom.

He appears to still be fast asleep, so I make no move beyond the doorway.

I could wake him, to make sure things are okay like Daddy asked, but I choose not to. Instead, I watch Beetee a moment in silence. I know it's the morphling is making him sleep, but I feel a pang of jealousy for how soundly unconscious he appears in the darkness.

A moment later, I'm proven wrong as Beetee stirs under the covers and turns his head to look in my direction.

"Who is it? Dr. Ohmstead?" he mumbles, still groggy. He extends a hand for his glasses, and after putting them on, sits up and turns on the bedside lamp.

His words are a little garbled, probably from the trauma to his mouth earlier. "Oh, Wire. What a nice surprise. I heard someone come in."

"I hope I didn't—"

"—wake me? No, I've been coming around for a little while, but the medicine your father gave me is a bit disorienting. At least now I have a reason to get up."

I shake my head silently. "Want anything?"

Beetee shrugs. "I'm a little hungry, but I don't think I'll be able to eat anything more solid than broth until the pain deadens."

"Are you in a lot of pain?"

He shakes his head. "A fair bit. It's bearable though, thank you. Your father is highly skilled in his trade."

He begins to get out of bed. I lean against the doorway as he goes to put on a shirt. Usually, being in Beetee's presence anchors my mind to the Earth, but after everything that's happened today, I'm mindless, even now.

The man is so gentle. How can Edison think he is a monster? Or that I am? How could he prefer that we die instead of return home by any means necessary? Did he wish that I died quickly and without a fight like my District partner did?

My head is swimming in all of these unsolicited thoughts. I realize I can't stay. I can't upset Beetee in his current condition.

I don't even wait for Beetee to come away from his dresser. I turn away and leave.

"Wiress—" is all I can hear Beetee say before I slam the front door and proceed down the stairs.

My body leads me past my apartment, past my family's apartment, down, down, down until I reach the lobby of the building. I rush past the lone Peacekeeper guarding the door and go out into the street, unescorted, for the first time since the Games.

The Victor's Village is part of a square in the center of the Inner City. The Justice building is nearby. The rest are high-rise businesses and factories, with boulevards leading off in four separate ways, like the four winds going off in different directions. I choose the one on my right and begin slowing my pace, keeping my head down so as not to be recognized.

Hours go by as the evening gets darker and colder. I have no coat on, and I feel the chill of nightfall creeping up my back.

Deciding I'm sufficiently lost in the city, and that I need protection from the cold, I find the nearest place that looks to be open and receptive to the public. A neon sign flickers on and off, reading the word "Café" with an arrow pointing to a stairwell leading down and inside the basement. No light emanates from the windows, but that seems to be because heavy black curtains are drawn over them from the inside.

I go down the stairs and open the door. It leads to a dark, cold, empty foyer. At the far end, a burly man stands by a door, guarding it.

"H…hello?" I ask timidly, approaching the guard.

"Were you invited?" the man asks.

"Oh…no. I didn't realize this was a private—"

"—I know you! You're the Victor girl!" The guard's stern demeanor changes instantly, and my heart drops as I realize I've been recognized. That is the last thing I want right now.

"I'll just go.."

"Damn, but you look like you've seen better days. Guess that's why you're here," the man says. "Of course you can go in! I'll escort you to a table myself, Miss Wiress."

The guard opens the door, and I'm accosted by a very strange smell as it wafts up my nose in thick smoke.

Before me is a dimly-lit café. Off to the left is a bar, and the room is set up with tables in three layers of a semi-circle, each layer leading down into a pit with more tables and chairs. Above the pit is a stage where a man sits and fiddles with some kind of instrument I don't recognize. Opposite the bar on the other side of the large room is a separate area, where some of the guests look as willowy and sick as Edison.

The guard notices me looking in that direction, and he says, "That's the morphling den. Ninety-credit minimum and you can shoot all night if you want."

The herbal, skunky odor increases as the man leads me down one layer, then another, to the pit in front of the stage. He takes me to a table for two off to the side and seats me.

Everyone around is me contributing to the odor in the air by smoking. Now I can identify the smell. It's a smell most in Panem don't recognize, because the substance is outlawed.

It's Canna. A drug bred from an extinct plant called cannabis. Cannabis used to be smoked or eaten in order to obtain and artificial high that dulled pain and increased appetite. As the plant began to die out, pre-Panem scientists bred an alternative that is 40-45% more concentrated. Panem outlawed it quickly. All substances not sanctioned for medical or scientific use are illegal. But that never stopped anyone in human history from hunting it down.

I feel the burly man press something into my hand. It's a Canna cigarette.

"On the house," he says pleasantly. "Go up to the bar and Les will get you anything you want for free. I imagine you sorely need it."

"Uhh," is all I manage to utter as I hold the Canna between my fingers.

"Oh, allow me," the man says, taking out a metal lighter and in one quick motion, lighting the tip of the cigarette for me like a gentleman.

"Welcome to District Three nightlife!"


	7. VII: Until the End

**A/N: **_A special thank you to empressakura655 for the kind words. You seem to be the only one. :( Oh well, on with the show..._

* * *

**Chapter VII: Until the End**

I feel incredible!

My head is floating in the air above my body and I love it. Love it. Love it. It's like all my cares are gone away, and I can't even remember how I got here. Ha!

Smoking is kind of hard. It makes my throat and lungs hurt, and the coughing isn't fun. But that's gone now too. I feel very relaxed…and hungry. The nice man who brought me in here had someone bring me a sandwich, and wow, did it taste great!

I never thought I'd let myself do something like this. I usually think thinks like Canna and morphling are dangerous or unnecessary. I don't think I'd still ever do morphling. But this Canna stuff is wonderful. I don't feel lost in my mind anymore. Or, if I am still lost, I just don't care. This is such a freeing feeling.

There's a lady on the stage right now, reciting a poem. The words are a little familiar to me…can't quite place them, though. Not yet.

I think people here recognize me, but like me, they're too high to care much. I'm alone in a sea of strangers. Unlike the Capitol, here they just let me be. I like it. I had no idea anyone in no-nonsense District Three did stuff like this. I didn't know there were Canna Clubs here!

I've long since finished the Canna cigarette the guard gave me, but every few minutes, a server comes to my table and gives me another one, saying it's been paid for by someone in the room who recognizes me. I think one is enough for now, so all of the other ones I put in my pants pocket for another day. Even if these aren't allowed in Panem, I'm a Victor. I won't get in trouble.

I have no idea how much time has passed. The Canna Club reached full capacity some time ago, and now people are beginning to trickle out and go home to bed.

Maybe the Canna is fading from my body, because I suddenly get the feeling that going home right now will depress me. I decide to take one of the eight or nine cigarettes in my pocket. I put it in my mouth while I grab one of the wooden matches on the table. I inhale as I light the thing.

I cough and cough as I try to get the smoke to stay in my lungs. A server from earlier taught me how to hold the smoke in as long as I can before exhaling. This makes the floaty effect better. After a few seconds, I can't keep it in any more, and I blow it all out. I watch the smoky tendrils curl about me and rise up into the air.

The floating is back to being strong again as I keep inhaling, taking big gulps of water in between to try and soothe my throat. I feel incredibly relaxed.

"I really didn't think I'd find you here."

Oh, no.

I turn around in my chair.

Edison.

"Where the hell have you been?" he says, gritting his teeth. "Dad, Beetee, and I have been all around the city looking for you since dinnertime!"

I scowl. Why is he here?

"Go away," I mumble. "I hate you."

"Wiress, come on…"

"Leave me alone. I love it here."

Edison gives me an odd look.

"Were you in the morphling den?" he asks cautiously.

I shake my head. "Just here."

"And how many of those have you hit?"

"Hit?"

Edison rolls his eyes. "My goddamned baby sister is in a Canna Club," he murmurs, as if I can't hear. "How many of those have you smoked?"

"Two," I answer honestly. "Now can you go away?"

He thinks a moment. "I want to leave you here, believe me. But Dad, Mom, and Beetee will want me to take you out of here. You're only sixteen."

"Not until June," I say back. My jerk of a brother can't even remember my age or birthday.

"Close enough. Here, give me one," Edison demands. Before I can stop him, he takes my cigarette and inhales three times in quick succession. He is a lot better at keeping the smoke down than me. He hands it back to me and sits in the extra chair at my table.

"I'll let you finish it, but then we should get out of here. There's two Peacekeepers looking for you too. If they trace you here, they'll arrest everyone in the place."

I feel a wave of paranoia come over me, and it's somewhat sobering. Would I be arrested too? What happens if a Victor goes to prison? What would Beetee think? Would he be ashamed of me?

"Okay," I sigh, putting out the nib of Canna left in my hand out on the table, missing the ash tray by a good few inches. Judging from the condition of the table, I wasn't the first to do that. "But I still hate you."

On the way out the door, I realize the familiar poem the woman on stage is reading. It's Night Bird. My poem.

* * *

The light of late morning fills my room and wakes me. I feel fine, other than my throat being scratchy and dry. I roll my head to the side, and someone has left a tall glass of water by the bed. Probably Edison when he brought me home last night.

The events of last night are a fog to me. As I lay in bed, pieces of it come back. Running out of the building and getting lost in the Inner City. Stumbling onto the Canna Club and being given more free Canna than I knew what to do with. The light, pleasant high. Edison intruding on my evening out to bring me back before trouble happened. Everything in between is filler. Some of it I can't even remember in detail. I've heard that Canna has a mild amnesiac effect.

Without warning, a heavy, violent cough punches it's way up my throat. My body flings to an upright position in an effort to cope, and I attempt to reach the water on the table. I'm barely able to grab it, and in between breaths I swallow as much water as I can before another coughing spasm.

I feel a gentle hand touch my back, startling me. The coughing subsides, and I turn my head around.

Mom is sitting next to me, a concerned look on her face. "Any phlegm?"

I thought it was Edison or Beetee watching after me. I'm surprised to see her. I shake my head. "Dry cough."

"Good," Mom replies. "I was going to send for a Healer if it was anything worse. Any other symptoms?"

"No," I wheeze, taking another sip of water. Truthfully, other than the symptoms in my respiratory system, I feel fine, at least physically.

"Canna is more potent than anything our ancestors used," Mom tells me. "Still, it could have been worse. You worried Daddy and Beetee pretty badly, though."

I figure as much. "Are they angry?"

Mom shakes her head. "Relieved you're safe. I would go up and have a word with Beetee when you're feeling up to it, however."

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

Mom takes the empty glass from my hands. "You don't need to apologize. None of us can really tell how the others are coping with…everything. And you're probably far from the first Victor to turn to self-medication. I just don't want you to take to a more serious place."

"Like morphling?"

Mom shrugs. "Yes, but I meant running off alone when you're upset. Going missing. Possibly even giving up entirely."

Giving up entirely. Suicide.

There have been suspected suicides from past Victors. Of course, the Capitol spins these stories to make a Victor's premature death sound like an accident of sorts. Career Victors love their lot, so when a suicide occurs, it's usually a Victor from an outlier District. The only other District Three Victor died this way, at least that's what most of us believe. The official story was that they electrocuted themselves working on an experiment.

Have I wanted to die since winning the Games? I don't think I have. There have been many times I've felt trapped and lonely, as if there's no escape from the nightmares. When I think of how quickly my world has changed, it takes my breath away.

"When did I get back?"

"Almost dawn," Mom answers. "It's nearly noon right now."

"I suppose I shouldn't ever smoke that stuff again?"

Mom gives me a blank look. "I recommend talking to Beetee. He's up in his inventing room right now, working on something. I think he's been waiting for you."

* * *

"Hello."

My voice is barely above a whisper, so Beetee doesn't hear me. He has his back to me anyway, and he's focused on cauterizing something. I see no reason to rush him. He might get irritated with me, if he isn't already.

Beetee's inventing room is in the same place on his floor that my library is on mine. Instead of a chaise and relaxed lighting, there are tables piled high with papers and scraps of invention all over. The place has no organization to speak of. There is one shelf that follows along the three walls opposite the door, stacked with tech books, science guides, and other tomes. I don't read Beetee's books, though I imagine he'd let me if I asked him. Maybe I will someday, but as long as I have a near-unlimited supply of my own, there's no reason to invade his private spaces.

This is the first time I've ever been apprehensive about talking to Beetee. Mom did say he wasn't upset with me, but I still feel hesitation holding fast to my core.

At first, I think I should wait until he turns around and sees me, but after about five minutes it occurs to me that Beetee may be too engrossed in his work that he may not even look up or take a break for several hours.

"Beetee?" I call, louder this time.

He finally pauses. He has to know it's me, but he takes a second to turn around.

Beetee is a gentleman at heart, at least I think so. He always asks before touching or hugging me beyond holding my hand or putting an arm around my shoulders. So it takes me by surprise when he drops the coil he's holding and walks up to me, scooping me into his arms without warning. I can feel his chin on my shoulder. There's a security to his tight embrace. I wrap my arms around him in return.

At least he isn't upset with me.

"Thank heavens you're safe," he whispers into my ear before releasing his grip of me. He takes both of my hands in his. "What happened? Did I do something to make you-?"

I quickly shake my head. "I was already upset, and not with you."

He doesn't know about Edison's violent words? How he wishes I had died instead of killed, even if it wasn't on purpose?

"You could've been hurt…I don't know what I would have done if you were," Beetee continued. "I went out looking with your father and brother, and when Edison came back holding you up like a scarecrow—"

"—no one drugged me. I did it myself," I admit. Beetee nods.

"I thought so."

I wait a moment, gesturing for him to continue.

"What else do you want me to say? That I don't approve?" he suggests.

"You do approve?"

Beetee shrugs. "I couldn't say off-hand, to be honest."

Before we continue the conversation, Beetee makes tea for us, which we sip in the living room quietly for a moment before I tell Beetee about Edison, the Canna bar, and how much I want this whole thing to go away.

"It's an extremely complicated situation, Wire. True, Edison has no idea what it's like being in the Games, but that doesn't de-legitimize his feelings," he reasons.

"So I was wrong?"

"Not at all," he continues. "Edison is on the same level as we are, in a way. He's just taking it to a very negative place. We're trying to make the best of an inescapable nightmare, but he's choosing to take it for what it is—a nightmare."

"And the morphling…"

"…there are at least fifteen Victors I know of who self-medicate with morphling or alcohol," Beetee adds. "It's actually astounding how you were able to fight off the temptation to use it."

"But I took Canna instead. In fact…" I pull out the several cigarettes I had kept from last night.

Beetee's lips twist as he thinks of what to reply with.

"I'll be honest, I wouldn't use it myself, but I have my own reasons. I'm not your father, Wire. My opinion really doesn't matter here. I would only ask a favor if you wanted to continue to use it."

"And what is that?"

Beetee looks me in the eye. "Don't use it alone. Let me know when you want to and I'll watch out for you. I'm afraid if you have a bad experience and you are by yourself, you might come to harm."

"I liked how it felt," I confess. "I actually forgot for a minute who I am and where I am."

"Think of it this way: how do you heal a broken leg? Pretend it doesn't exist and take painkillers? Or actively work on fixing it with help?"

Beetee has a way with metaphors. He should be the poet, not me.

"I see," I mumble.

"I will support you no matter what decision you make, but if you want to take this up as a coping mechanism, I want to protect you from any adverse effects," Beetee insists.

"Beetee, we're close, aren't we?"

He smiles warmly and takes my hand. "I've never been closer to anyone."

"And we're in this together until the end, right?"

"Always."

"What if the end is…when we die?" I ask, unsure of where this is coming from. In this moment, I feel safe coming out with everything. I scooch over and lean my head on his. I can feel his hand softly stroking my hair as I vent. "The Tour is over, but summer will be here soon. We have to go back. And we have to go back every year."

"Not necessarily," Beetee counters. "If a District has more than two Victors, the most recent winners go to Mentor the Tributes. This year, if we produce another winner, you won't have to go back if you don't want to."

I know how unlikely this is. The only Districts to ever produce back-to-back Victors are Two and Four. Even One hasn't accomplished this yet, so how could a non-Career District do it?

"But going back this year is unavoidable, especially for you, I'm afraid," Beetee reminds me.

Indeed. The previous year's Victor always gets a lot of attention and interviews going into the new Games. It's like passing a torch. I will also be given a place of honor on the Presidential stage during the Tribute's parade, the last time I will wear the Victory diadem.

"Beetee, how can I survive? I can't even speak in public, and they won't let you onto Dionysius Flickerman's show to be my voice this time."

Beetee looks from me to the Canna on the table, and then back to me.

"You know, maybe we can use these after all," he muses.

"How? If I smoke these before going out there I'll just sound like a fool," I say, sadly.

He shakes his head. "My specialty is inventing technology, but I have dabbled in chemistry as well on occasion. I know some basics. If I can find a way to extract some of the ingredients in Canna that relaxes the mind without altering it's function, maybe we could make a tincture that will help you."

"How?"

"Chemistry is a fascinating field," Beetee says, taking one of the Canna cigarettes in his hand and fiddling with it. "Two gases can come together to make a liquid. Two poisons can combine to make a medicine. Put the most flammable materials into a mixture and it becomes stable enough to eat. Extracting one element from a molecule turns that molecule into an entirely different thing, with different properties. If I do some research with these, I may be able to find a way to make something safer that can still be useful to us."

I ask, "Do you know much about it?"

"I can research the parts I don't know. I am familiar with some of the history behind it. In the Americana Era they fought over the right to use it. They knew it had medicinal properties and identified the compounds that gave it the characteristics it had. Some places kept it illegal. Others sold it like bottles of wine. When America fell apart, most places had made it legal, and those who survived the downfall of America used it to the point of near-extinction to cope with the fear of the unknown futures they had. That's when they made Canna. Canna is a half-plant, half-synthetic combination that retains most of its original effects...only amplified by several times. The plant it derives from was relatively harmless when used. A user would feel what you felt, only less so. Now, with the added and altered compounds, it's become a bit more dangerous, as well as habit-forming…but I would still consider it less hazardous than morphling and alcohol."

"I'll help you in any way I can," I say, feeling a smile cross my face. I don't know much about chemistry, but with Beetee's encouragement I'll do anything. Maybe this is a way to get my words back! Get me to the way I used to be, where I wasn't afraid to talk to people.

"We'll work together, Wire. This is our time."

I look at Beetee, and all I see is warm affection on his face. Something in me stirs, and it occurs to me that in that moment I am so thankful for him that I want to kiss him.

But before I can do more than begin to lean in to Beetee's face, a furious knock at the door interrupts the moment.

"I'll get it," he offers, getting up and going to the door. Whatever is going on must be serious, because the knocking doesn't let up. I get to my feet and follow Beetee to the door.

Beetee opens the door. "Dr. Ohmstead? What is it?"

Daddy is in the doorway. He looks at me. His face is drained of any color.

"Edison is being taken to the hospital. He's overdosed on morphling."


	8. VIII: Unimaginable

**Chapter VIII: Unimaginable**

* * *

_"Similarly to Canna, morphling is derived from an old drug used hundreds of years ago, during the Americana era. It's original form was an opium-based medicine called morphine. It was incredibly powerful, able to deaden even the worst pain. But, unlike the cannabis plant, morphine could kill. It was highly addictive, and people often bought it (or street versions of it) for recreational purposes. Like Canna, the original compounds were bastardized and re-arranged to form a much more powerful, dangerous descendant." –A Basic History of Substances, Volume Two, Panem Medical Press_

* * *

The orderlies in the hospital have taken Beetee, Daddy, and I to a private waiting room to prevent us from being swamped by fans or media. I think we still managed to cause whispers in the emergency room as we were whisked down the hall upon arrival.

Daddy and Mommy hold each other in the corner by the door. Mom is shaking.

Beetee is sitting calmly in a chair closer to where I am, keeping an eye on me. He's watching me like I'm a bomb about to explode, but I'm looking blankly out the window, trying to arrange my thoughts into something more cohesive. None of us are speaking.

This room is white and hermetic. I don't think a single germ could exist in here if it wanted to. It's as if someone bleached Daddy's waiting room until it could reflect sunlight. Is this sterile place supposed to comfort us as we wait for news about my brother?

I don't feel anything at all. Is it shock? No. If it were shock, I wouldn't be thinking at all. But what else could possibly explain why I'm so numb? Is it because I've been in worse places than this? I can't see what's happening to Edison right now, and it's as if he's alive and dead at the same time. In the arena, I saw death. I nearly met death. Death was in front of my face. Maybe I know inside me that nothing could be worse than that.

_ If he lives, I'm going to make amends, _I think. _I'll help him get off the morphling, and maybe he can work with Beetee and I to make that tincture, and it will give him new purpose._

I can hear noises in the hall. A woman screams. A child cries. Doctors bark hasty orders at Healers. The occasional gurney rolls by.

I can feel Beetee's eyes on me. I don't care to look at him right now. We should both save our sympathy for Edison.

I can see my reflection in the window. I need to follow through with cutting my hair. It's presently well past my shoulders and down my chest. It's not worth taking care of at this length. Plume and Aloysius would be upset with me if I cut it; there wouldn't be enough hair left to style. But why should I care what two ditzes from the Capitol think? They will likely be too busy with this year's Tributes anyhow.

"Dr. and Mrs. Ohmstead?"

We all turn to face the Healer as one. I feel chills. The Healer's face tells us everything, and I don't need her to say the words.

* * *

The sibling of a Victor doesn't ever get the attention or priority the Victor themselves does. Panem has no need to sugar-coat Edison's story. All they need to do is omit the details and make the funeral small, which is typically District Three's custom anyway.

In Three, weddings and funerals aren't full of pomp and circumstance (as most of us can't afford to do it that way). Weddings amount to a signing ceremony. Funerals have a little more than that, but that's mainly to comfort the survivors. Death is the same for everyone, no matter their District. It is just the sendoff that differs.

In Three, bodies can be donated to research. While we aren't necessarily top in medical research, the human body has so much to offer many other areas of study. If someone dies due to a malfunction in some piece of technology, the body is autopsied and their injuries studied to see if there's some clue as to how to fix the machine that caused their deaths. Bodies are good electric conductors as well, so their use in the study of electricity and safety is also important. When one in Three turns nineteen, they sign a legal document that directs their next of kin on what to do with their remains.

However, Edison had been barely of age, and had not formally indicated where he wanted his body to go when he passed away. As a result, he has been cremated, which is the default. Out of respect, a person must say they wish to be donated while in life in order for the donation to happen.

For those left behind (Mom, Daddy, and I), we have a small ceremony to inter his ashes outside of the City in the public burial fields. That's where we are today.

It doesn't feel right that it's bright and sunny. It's the first week of spring. Outside the City, where the smog can't reach us, everything is crystal clear. It's easier to breathe, and the air doesn't smell like dirt. It's a shame that I can't appreciate it fully.

Mom and I wear black dresses, and Daddy and Beetee wear suits. Only a few other people are with us. Two Grave Tenders place the urn of Edison's remains on top of the marker that will indicate where he lies for the rest of the Earth's time. One of Edison's former teachers, Mr. Li, is here with his wife. No one from the Capitol or anywhere else in Panem are here, and I don't expect Edison will get so much as a minute of airtime on the Capitol Report. After all, I won the Games. He couldn't even make it to twenty. The Capitol doesn't know he exists.

One of the Grave Tenders, a very tall man with oddly light skin for our District, reads a few words out of respect before lowering the urn into the hole under the marker, with only a few words and Edison's last school identification photo engraved into it:

**Edison Jonas Ohmstead**

**February 8, 2561-March 23, 2580**

**Son, Brother**

No one ever said we were a wordy people in District Three.

After the ceremony, we take a private monorail back into the City, which only takes about thirty minutes. No one speaks. Mom cries and Daddy stays with her. I haven't said a word to Beetee, nor has he to me, but every so often I catch him looking at me with concern.

I haven't cried once since the hospital, and I'm not sure if that means I'm heartless, or if I never really loved him. More than anything, I just blame myself for his death. After all, he started using morphling because of me. I yelled at him the day before he passed. He was the one who hunted and took me away from that Canna club. I was the last person he interacted with before he took that fatal dose.

When we arrive at Victor's Village, Beetee finally addresses me.

"Tea?"

I look at him, and I realize for the first time since the Games, that I don't want to be around anyone, including Beetee. I think it's because I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed because it's my fault Edison is dead instead of applying for his inter-District passport to start his life.

"No," I say, barely audible, going up the stairs to my apartment alone.

"Wiress? Wiress!" Beetee calls after me.

He has nothing to worry about. I won't kill myself or anything, but I still feel like being alone.

* * *

I don't like admitting it, but being a Victor comes with advantages. Some are more obvious than others: I don't ever have to worry about being homeless or starving. I don't have to worry about being Reaped. I get to experience "the Capitol Lifestyle" at least once every year, or more if I wanted to. I can have as much money, jewelry, or other priceless items I could want. I can get away with using illegal morphling and Canna without the threat of arrest.

One of the few advantages I like to use is access to otherwise-forbidden music and books. Granted, the Capitol never brings me these, but in Three we have many archivists who have access to so much of the world's past that all I need is to ask and provide some kind of payment, and within a week or two, a music player or novel from hundreds of years ago will be delivered to me.

I decide to put on a music file from the Americana Era. The entire file is from a musical play about one of the Founders of the Americana Era government. I can't find much to read on the man, as even the best archivists in Panem can't find everything, especially from so long ago, before the apocalyptic events that brought America down in the first place. The music isn't particularly to my taste, but some of the individual songs resonate, especially the sad ones.

_There are moments that the words don't reach_

_There's a suffering too terrible to name_

_We push away what we can never understand—_

"—we push away the unimaginable," a voice finishes.

Of course, it's Beetee. He must know I almost never lock my door, though I wish he'd respected my request in the first place, at least for tonight.

"I like that one too, though my preference is for the first half of the album," he continued. "More upbeat."

"I told you to leave me alone," I say softly.

Beetee walks into the library and sheepishly puts his hands in his pockets. He's still wearing his suit from the memorial. I have been out of my dress for hours.

"I think you know why I can't do that," Beetee says.

"You can do anything you want," I reply. "If you're worried, I won't harm myself. I won't take any Canna either. I don't want it ever again."

"No, that's not it…well, not all of it," he answers, looking around before taking a seat on the foot rest in front of the chaise I occupy. "Wire, you know how I feel about you. I can't in good conscience leave the woman I love alone at a time like this, especially when it may be may fault your brother died in the first place."

I don't know what part of his word make me tense up all over, whether it's "it may be my fault" or "the woman I love" or just "woman." I still hate when anyone calls me that.

"What makes you think that?" is all I can muster.

"Edison was your big brother. Imagine watching you come home and have another boy the same age take over the role, and take it away from what is rightfully his own job," Beetee says softly, as if each word exacerbates his guilt. He wrinkles his forehead, as if holding back a cringe or a grimace.

"You didn't," I say. "He was protective of me, but we never had any of the conversations you and I do."

"Exactly."

I feel like I've been hit in the chest as the realization comes over me. Edison was jealous of Beetee? Of watching him care for me in a way Edison couldn't? But why did he never tell me this in life? If he was so upset, if he had only said so…

"It wasn't you," I murmur. "You didn't inject morphling into his arm."

"Maybe not, but maybe—"

"—just stop!" My voice is raising in volume, and my face is beginning to feel hot. "We'll never know, so why ask? I just want to rewind the world to a year ago and run away from here before my name was pulled. Before I knew what misery was. Before—"

_-before I knew you. _

I am able to stop myself before I say the rest of it, because blind speech driven by emotions won't help either of us. Plus, I know in my heart it isn't true. Instead, I change directions.

"He would walk me to and from school. Sometimes he'd watch me when both Mom and Daddy were working. But we never spent real time together. He was more like a bodyguard to me. I never knew he liked doing it. I always thought he thought it was his duty."

"I think there is something you should know," Beetee says. "I talked with him after he brought you home the other night. He was high, so I'm not sure how 'in his own head' he was. But I mentioned his ambitions to travel to District Two and start a career there, and how now, more than ever, it was possible for him."

"He could've left any time he wanted."

"Right," he continues. "But he told me that staying here for you was what he needed to do."

And suddenly, it's my fault, even if no one sees it that way. It was me this whole time, shirking him at every turn, ignoring that he even existed. Before our argument that led me to run off into the city, I'd only spoken to him a handful of times, and all this time I've been thinking he was avoiding me…was I avoiding him instead? Was I pushing him away like I'm always pushing Daddy away?

My fault. It really is my fault.

"W…why would you tell me this?" I feel a cold rush go up and down my spine. I feel sick to my stomach. I must be getting pale, because Beetee's look changes from sorrow to instant regret. He has said too much, and he knows it immediately.

"I didn't mean to say it like that. I'm sorry, Wire. I'm so good at figuring things out with logic and facts, sometimes I can't process the effect—"

"—get out," I say quietly. "Please. Just go."

"Wiress," Beetee begins. I stay quiet and look at him indignantly, but he doesn't finish his thought.

Maybe it's the look on my face that scares him, or maybe it's that he's still processing the weight of his words, but he gets up off of the foot rest and leaves me silently, going out the door and back upstairs. Maybe he'll visit tomorrow. Maybe he'll never speak to me again. Somehow, in this moment, I don't care.

Unimaginable.

* * *

It's not as warm as it usually is for this time of year. It's gray and windy, though it doesn't feel like rain will fall. It may yet get hot, as it's only about an hour after dawn.

I'm on the roof overlooking the City. As usual, smog and dust obscure much of the sights, but I want to be here right now, getting a good look of my home. There's a kind of security to a city. It's closed in, yes, but is that a bad thing? Maybe for a country person, but for me, it's the best kind of environment I can think of. Even the Capitol seems more open than the dense, tightly-packed Inner City.

It's been almost four months since I've spoken more than ten words to Beetee. He's left me alone, and I haven't sought him out, though that will inevitably change after today. My birthday was about a month or so ago. Sweet Sixteen, as people from the past may have called it. Beetee came down for the small dinner Mom and Daddy prepared for me, but he spent most of his time talking with Daddy. Mom bought me a new dress, and Beetee must have coordinated, because he procured a pendant in the same dark green as the dress. It's a real stone, emerald, I think. I have little experience with jewels, but I accepted the gift gratefully, and it did make Beetee smile when I tried it on.

The weight of Edison's death has lifted only a little. He stands among the dead bodies of my dreams now. Sometimes I even dream he is my partner in the Games, and all I see is myself beheading him, or watching as he drowns, or worse. When I wake up screaming, for a moment, I'll swear I hear footsteps bolting around directly above me, as if Beetee has shared my nightmare. But after a moment, the footsteps retreat, and he is back in his own bed again. I feel as if I know what is really happening…he hears me and starts to check on me…then remembers how I refuse to see him.

Mom is the only one I see now, and I will confess, having her playing a closer role in my life has been a good thing. I have always underestimated or dismissed her. She's a plain woman who isn't particularly warm, but having a female to confide in has been such a benefit. Mom never blames me for Edison. Mom never brings up the Games. Mom never refuses when I offer to read to her, and when I do, she listens intently and discusses each passage with me, even if I think she wouldn't otherwise be interested. Mom talks to me in a way I can relate to…a way I could never share with anyone. Sometimes I want to cry and scold myself for waiting sixteen years to let her into my heart.

I hear the door creak open behind me. Speaking of Mom, she's here now.

"They're here," she says softly. "Beetee is almost ready. It's time."

I turn to look at her. She isn't dressed or made up, because she isn't going anywhere today.

I am, however. Today is the day I've been dreading since the Victory Tour.

Today is the Reaping for the 45th Annual Hunger Games, and my formal debut as a Mentor. Today is the day my nightmares become solid reality.


	9. IX: Reaping Day, Again

**Chapter IX: Reaping Day…Again**

I don't get Aloysius and Plume to help me prepare this time. Plume is too busy with her Reaping Day duties, and Aloysius waits in the Capitol for the new crop of Tributes. The torch has been silently, unceremoniously passed, and I, for one, am thankful to only have Mom help me get ready. I will likely have a prep team in the Capitol for my public appearances and time in the Sponsor Atrium, where it will be part of my job to get the elite of Panem to spend unholy amounts of money on basic tools for survival to send to my Tributes.

Maybe that will be Beetee's job. He has to know I won't be capable of convincing many people of anything.

I wear the dark green dress Mom and Daddy gave me for my birthday last month. Mom puts my hair (still not cut short like I want) into a messy bun at the nape of my neck. Several feathery hairs escape, but Mom says it's a natural look that frames my face well.

"The pendant?" I ask. Mom gives me an odd look.

"I didn't think you'd want it, considering—"

"—no, I do."

Mom nods and goes to retrieve Beetee's gift from my dresser. She fastens it around my neck, and I feel more complete.

I know close communication with him will be important now, especially if it means the lives of this year's unfortunate children. A part of me is nervous about confronting him after four months of actively avoiding the man, but maybe it's time to let his mistake go. There are more important things at hand, like doing all I can to bring another survivor home to their parents, and making it through watching my own nightmares come to life.

With a Victor of each sex now at Three's disposal, the Tributes will have double the advice and encouragement, and many people consider having the most recent Victor as your Mentor an advantage. Perhaps it's like that in Career Districts, but in Three, all it will do is rip open the scars from a year ago.

"He's good for you, Wiress," Mom says quietly as we go downstairs to meet Beetee and the small entourage who will escort us across the square to the Justice Building. "He will be all you have one day. Please don't lock him out anymore."

We go out into the lobby where Beetee waits with Daddy. I give Daddy a cautious smile, to which he responds with a subtle nod of encouragement. In the past year, especially after Edison's death, Daddy has learned that sometimes the best response is silence.

Beetee looks handsome, in the same suit he wore for my Reaping last year. And it's evident that he, in turn, can't take his eyes off of me. His eyes catch the pendant, and he gives me a smile.

Four masked Peacekeepers arrive to escort the two of us to the Justice Center. I don't embrace either of my parents, but I do wave. Beetee shakes hands with Daddy.

Before I can even count to twenty, we're there and immediately escorted inside. I can see Plume reviewing some note cards on which her speech is written. I can't imagine why she needs a rehearsal. She recites the exact same speech every year.

No one tells us where to stand or what to do while we wait for the youth of Three to assemble and sign in. It takes the better part of two hours until the ceremony begins, and most of it is spent with the two of us in silence. It is only a few minutes before we are set to make our entrance as the Victors of Three.

"You will be introduced first. You won't be asked to say anything. Just go off to the left and wait for me. It will help if you don't look out at them."

Them. The pool of teenagers who are standing in dread the way I did last year.

"Beetee, about everything—"

"—I know," he says gently. "We can clear the air on the train. But for now, try and stay inside your mind the best you can. I know you can do it."

"Only because you're here," I add.

I can't tell for sure (the room is rather dark), but Beetee appears to blush.

"What if…what if it's someone I know?" I ask. While I didn't socialize much at school before the Games, there were a few classmates among my peer group I would be disheartened to see chosen. My school class will be sixteen or seventeen this year, so they all will still be eligible for Reaping. In fact, there are only four different schools in Three, one for each quadrant of the city. The odds that at least one Tribute will come from my school (North Secondary) are considerable.

"It's time!" Plume chimes, nudging her way ahead of us, interrupting my thoughts. I feel Beetee take my hand and help me move upward towards the stage.

The light almost blinds me as I step over the threshold into the open air. Before me is a faceless sea of children. I take Beetee's advice and look over all of their heads to the several layers of bleachers set behind them in the style of an amphitheater. Parents, siblings, and others stand in the mezzanine seats with a clear view of the entire spectacle.

Mild applause goes up as Beetee and I take our positions, and Plume begins with her speech, as well as the propaganda film about the beginning of the Games (which Beetee and I could both recite by memory).

I bite my lip and look down as much as I can. Beetee, thankfully, never lets go of my hand.

Plume draws the girls' name first. Naturally, she milks the moment for added suspense, which I find nearly cruel.

"Hedy Maxson."

I don't recognize the name offhand, but Hedy is one of the most trendy girls' names for our District, after a female inventor from a long, long time ago. A girl about my size, with wildly curly jet-black hair and glasses is escorted up to the stage. Her eyes are already red as she's trying to hold back tears. My heart drops into my belly. She is me from a year ago.

Hedy Maxson takes a position on Plume's right hand. I look at Beetee, who carries a neutral look on his face. I imagine it's because he has had more time than me to practice handling this solemn moment.

_ Oh my gracious, I'm going to be doing this every year of my life…_

My eyes still linger on Hedy Maxson, when Plume reads off the boys' name. It is one I do recognize.

"Isaac Faraday."

The boy who approaches the stage under Peacekeeper escort is very large and muscular, with sandy hair and ice-blue eyes. Isaac Faraday was indeed a classmate of mine, although a year older. His sister was one of my bullies in school, and although he never took a hand or bad word to me himself, he witnessed his sister Ada's taunts without holding her back.

I truly don't know how to feel about this.

"I know him," I whisper to Beetee. He nods to acknowledge me without words.

Isaac Faraday and Hedy Maxson look equally frightened, even though Isaac has the physique of a Victor. Two sacrificial lambs.

Suddenly, I feel like I can do something. It's not about me anymore. It's about these two, and I decide in this moment that I will fight myself for the strength to see at least one of them through.

* * *

"We should give them some time alone to process this," Beetee suggests once the train is off to the Capitol.

"Do we each take one of them?" I ask.

"No, we can work as a team of four. In fact, that may be better," Beetee says. "I don't know either of them."

"I know the boy," I answer. "He and his sister were my schoolmates. We…didn't get along."

Beetee pauses a moment. "And do you think that could influence how you act as a Mentor?"

"No," I say reflexively. "Never."

Ada Faraday was one of the prettier girls in school, and her birthday happens to be one day after mine. She barely kept her grades out of the red, which are usually more of a badge of honor than appearances in Three. To compensate, she made herself into an example of beauty in an attempt to gain friends. She could afford this, as her parents were both respected engineers in the Inner City. I was far from the only one she mocked, but the more academic accolades I won, the more she would target me. She never put a hand to me or shamed me in such a way that it affected me. She would casually suggest that I was destined for spinsterhood, and that I was "mad" or "crazy."

Her brother is much more of the silent type. While physically imposing, I don't recall him ever using his strength to his advantage over other students. Like his sister, his academics were always precarious, but he always stuck me as more of the lazy type. Neither one of them ever gave me pause before today.

I informed Beetee of this, and he thought a moment of how to approach the situation.

"Are you sure you wouldn't let this history determine how you act?" he repeated.

I've lost a brother this year. No one deserves to feel what I do, even someone superficial like Ada.

"No, Beetee," I say solemnly.

"In that case, are you ready?"

I nod, and we go together into the next car, where a year ago Intel and I were sitting in the same chairs and contemplating our likely fates. Isaac was indeed sitting, but Hedy was propped against one of the windows, glaring blankly out at the rushing scenery as we leave Three behind.

Hedy is quite pretty, I note. Her curly black hair is long and shiny. Under her glasses, her eyes are emerald green. Even in this desolate moment, her posture is tall and straight. I estimate she is my age, maybe seventeen. She's wearing a white dress with short sleeves, and underneath she has small-but-toned biceps. Even her glasses add to her facial features, making her lovely eyes look bigger.

Knowing the Capitol, this may work to her advantage if I can convince her to allow it to be so.

"Hedy. Isaac. It's nice to meet you, though I wish it were under better circumstances," Beetee says, calling the meeting to order. "If you don't mind, I'd like to know a little more about the both of you. Then, Wiress and I can help you both in any way we can."

Hedy doesn't even twitch. Isaac, on the other hand, starts talking immediately.

"Isaac Faraday. I'm good at sports ed in school. I'm eighteen next week. My grades were okay, I guess."

"You're good at sports?" Beetee asks. Isaac nods. "What is your strength?"

"I lift," he replies. "I also came in second in the schoolwide field races last year."

Beetee and Isaac keep talking. I can't help but keep my eyes on poor Hedy, who clearly isn't as extroverted and confident as her counterpart. I get up from my chair, leaving Beetee to work with the male Tribute, and go over to where Hedy stands.

"I was in shock too when it was me," I say softly. "I'm really sorry."

Hedy doesn't say anything, nor does she do anything to indicate she's heard me.

"What school are you from?" I ask.

Still nothing.

I reflect back a moment, and it occurs to me in the moment that when I was Reaped, talking to strangers was one of the last things I'd wanted to do, so I nod.

"When you're ready, come find me."

I turn to rejoin Beetee and Isaac, but after a few steps, I hear a very soft, deep voice from behind me.

"West Secondary."

I stop and turn back around. "Biggest school in Three."

West Secondary is where most of the "elite" citizens of Three live, and most of their children do very well in testing and finding prestigious careers. Most of the people who live on that side of town are inventors and archivists for the Capitol. Most of the people with inter-district passports come from the western quadrant because they usually have the most to offer the elites.

"I'm sixteen."

I smile. "Me too."

Hedy finally turns her head. "I'm sorry. I'm just…really scared."

"So was I," I reply. "It's okay. You can be scared here."

Hedy looks down at her feet. "I'm…going to die, aren't I?"

How am I supposed to answer this? Should I be kind and tell her no and likely lie in order to quell her fears. Or should I be honest and confirm what she likely already expects, only to increase her fear but earn her trust as someone who won't beat around the bush with her?

I shrug. "I can't answer that. Only you can."

"I'm dying," Hedy says quietly. "I'm not strong or clever."

"Neither was I, Hedy."

Hedy nods. "Your Games were interesting. I studied them. You got a lot of people on your side when you had the…moment…with the Boy from Six."

"I didn't plan that," I admit. "I wasn't strong either. Or quick."

"You got a seven training score."

I sigh. "Tatsu—The Boy from Six—he helped me learn very basic staff work. It wasn't a matter of skill as much as showing off."

"Your arena was also fascinating," Hedy adds. "Those odd, sharp changes in weather stirred up the air too much. They made it look like it was on purpose, but I don't think that tornado was supposed to be there."

I shrug. "I didn't have time to notice where it came from."

"So what do I do? I mean…" Hedy pauses, gesturing across the car to where Beetee and Isaac talk openly. "…look at my partner."

I have nothing to say to this. I had a particularly fierce crop of female Careers to face last year, but my District partner only got a four in training. Intel wasn't fit or particularly smart. Intel was a special case. He resigned himself admirably to his fate. Isaac, on the other hand, looks like someone who will play to win. I wouldn't say he looks happy to be here, but he has more confidence in him.

"Is there anything we can do to help you feel a little better?" I ask. Hedy thinks a moment.

"Will the Reapings be done yet?"

"I'm not sure," I answer.

"I know it sounds weird, but I want to know who I'm up against. Can we look them over?"

* * *

Typically, One and Two are the last Districts to have their Reapings. But by nightfall, as the train begins approaching the prairies that precede the towering mountains that hide the Capitol, all four of us from Three have the replays of the Reapings to look over.

As usual, the Tributes from One, Two, and Four are all imposing and beautiful. The Girl from Four looks particularly scary, with frizzy brown hair and a very statuesque figure. The look in her eyes is one of excitement and preparedness. Her name is Rosita La Mer, and she's eighteen.

"Watch for her in training," Beetee says, pointing at her. "Make a note of what weapons she favors and what stations she is slow to visit." Isaac nods and Hedy bites her lip.

However, there seems to be an abnormal number of fit-looking athletic male tributes this year. The men from One, Two, Three, Four, Nine, and Eleven are all tall, muscular, brave-looking warriors. Even though the eighteen-year-old from Eleven does not look happy to be there, the boy looks to maybe be on the same level as a Career. Dionysius Flickerman's narration introduces him as Chaff Wheatley.

"It's always something worth noting, an athletic Tribute coming from an outlier District like Eleven," Beetee informs us. "They have raw potential, and many of them are just as desperate to get home as any non-Career."

"I can take them," Isaac says quietly. I look at Hedy. Her response to this is silence.

"We should arrive around noon tomorrow," Beetee tells us all. "Let's get some sleep."

Isaac and Hedy both obey without words, going towards their sleeping car. After they leave, Beetee addresses me for the first time in a few hours.

"How are you feelings now, Wire?" he asks.

I can feel my emotions swell and build under my skin. "Oh Beetee…she's the same as me. Exactly like me. She's small and smart and scared."

It's true. Looking at Hedy is like looking at me. This is the worst thing that could happen. I leap at Beetee and throw my arms around his neck, burying my face in his chest.

"She's just the same as me!"

* * *

Arriving at the Capitol last year was such an intense rush that for a moment I felt completely dissociative. This year, Hedy and Isaac get the "pleasure" of being swept away by Plume to be poked and prodded until deemed acceptably attractive. Beetee and I get a single Peacekeeper and Avox as our escorts, and we bypass the makeover centers and are escorted back to the same suite in the Training Center that I'd seen in my nightmares intermittently throughout the past year.

There is a small spread laid out for us on the dining table when we arrive. It's light fare for Capitol standards, but there is still more than plenty for us both.

I take some toast and jam, as well as some kind of frothy berry juice, and sit at Beetee's side at the table. He takes a noticeably long time spreading cream onto a bagel, as if lost in this current idea.

"Isaac may get a good training score," Beetee muses. "But I estimate his natural stealth to be quite low. Also, he doesn't seem to be one for foresight or survivalism. "

I ask, "How are we supposed to do this?"

"This first year will be the most difficult," Beetee explains. "You won't be with me for much of it. As the most recent Victor, you'll be at the President's side, crowned, for the Tributes Parade. During the Games, Dionysius will pull you from the Atrium and ask for your commentary often as things progress, although you won't be made to speak during the Tribute Interviews."

"Thank heavens for that."

He is silent a moment, thinking before he speaks again. I brace myself, because when he does this, the news is typically not what I want to hear. "We can't tell our Tributes this," Beetee sighs, "but I'm afraid you'll need to know this from here on out: our role is limited and almost worthless."

"Worthless?" I feel chilled again.

"We can give advice and calm their nerves," he adds. "But each arena is vastly different, as are each cohort of Tributes. There is no way to predict what advice will work, and what will be useless. Think about it, Wire. You could tell Isaac to watch the skies, because that was relevant for your experience, but if the arena is completely artificial, such as in a vault or bomb shelter, what good would that do him?"

"I see," I say lightly.

"All we can really tell them, the only consistently useful bit of help we can suggest," he concludes, "Is to stay alive."


	10. X: The Atrium

**Chapter X: The Atrium**

I expected a lot of things out of the process leading up to the 45th Games. I expected to be haunted with every breath I took. I expected to be frightened of facing the crowds as I played the symbol of the Capitol's generosity. I expected to fall apart every night before bed. I expected to need Beetee's help. I expected to feel helpless as I watched Isaac and Hedy begin the fight for their lives and futures.

I didn't expect the week leading up to the Hunger Games to pass so quickly.

Everything was a blur. The Parade, the training sessions, the scoring, the interviews, all flew in front of my eyes like a film in my mind. I may have been subconsciously coping by dissociating. Beetee probably saw this, as during the week he only sought me out after Isaac and Hedy were in bed.

Isaac, as expected, did well in training, and he received an eight as a score, putting him only one point below what is considered a Career score. People seem to be surprised that Three brought forth an athletic contender.

Hedy, on the other hand, scored a three.

I'm surprised that neither of them are awake yet. It is the morning of the Games. I couldn't sleep at all last night. Beetee must have been able to, he isn't here with me. I'm staring out of the Training Center windows into the Capitol while Avoxes set up the table for breakfast. Three's suite is on the fourth floor of the Center, so we aren't high enough to see above the surrounding buildings, but the streets below are still a fascinating vignette. Everyone is dressed in their brightest, abuzz with excitement for the day's events. I will admit, even though I don't care a whit for their fashion obsessed-lives, I will confess that some of the thought and artistry that goes into their attire is impressive. How do some of the women sleep with these hairstyles? Each one must takes twelve hours to perfect.

"Morning," I hear Beetee greet from behind me.

"Yes, it is," I whisper back.

Beetee is holding something behind his back, but he doesn't show it to me.

"Are they up?" I ask.

"I'm surprised they slept too," he answers. "Plume will be by any minute to get them ready. In the meantime, we should encourage them to eat as much as they can, especially carbohydrates."

I nod quietly.

"They should drink, too," Beetee said, his voice lowering as he closes in on me somewhat suspiciously. "Hydration will be of the utmost importance, you know."

Now he shows me what is behind his back. It's a tiny vial of a clear tincture.

"You may want to bring Hedy a morning glass of water," he adds, still quiet. "And add three drops of this before you do."

"What is that?"

"Remember the project I talked about last winter? The Canna solution without the elements that made it mind-altering?"

"You made that? In four months?" I ask with wonder.

"It isn't perfect, but I assure you that it won't alter her state of mind…it will just remove some of the nerves that may cause her to make a bad decision at the Cornucopia."

"Isn't…isn't that cheating?" I ask.

Beetee nods. "Surely you don't think the Career mentors do similar things to try and give their Tributes a quick advantage?"

"They do?"

This is news to me.

"I cheated for you, Wire. Don't you remember?"

I do remember. In the arena, Beetee had sent me sponsor gifts with hidden clues on the messages, warning me of some impending dangers. One message had told me in which direction to go to avoid the approaching weather traps. Another suggested I head in a certain direction to find better shelter. The messages aren't supposed to contain more than a few encouraging words, or directions on how to use the item in the package. Beetee had somehow gotten them past Capitol approval.

"This will only last about six hours once taken, so wait until just before they take off in the hovercrafts. That should give Hedy enough time to survive the bloodbath," instructed Beetee, pressing the vial into my hands. "All it will do is help stave off the immediate fears she will have, and it will help her keep her wits about her if things get rough."

"Will Isaac be getting this too?" I ask.

Beetee shakes his head. "Isaac has more natural advantages he can utilize. I've talked to several Mentors. The Careers are interested in 'adopting' him if Chaff from Eleven isn't interested. His odds of surviving the day are much higher."

"He isn't a thinker," I remark. "The Careers will use him as a patsy."

"I'm afraid they will, but for a while, anyway, that might not be such a bad thing. It will keep him alive. It's Hedy I worry about," he confesses.

Suddenly, Plume bursts in, drawing as much attention to herself as possible. She gives us a brief glance, as if she doesn't know who we are, before flitting towards the bedrooms.

"Do it now, before she comes back!" Beetee commands.

I nod and rush to the breakfast table. I grab a pitcher of water and pour as much into a large glass as possible. Beetee follows me and does the same for Isaac, to make it look like there is no hint of favoritism.

Beetee goes to Isaac's bedroom with the glass. I linger and try to discreetly drop three small doses of tincture into the glass. However, subtlety isn't my forte, and I look up after administering the droplets to see an Avox staring right at me.

I run cold and freeze in place. Caught.

However, the Avox smiles silently and puts a gentle finger to her lips. I should have known the Avox would be on my side. I nod in gratitude and take the glass to Hedy's bedroom without letting the awkward moment linger.

I find Hedy already dressed and perched quietly on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in what appears to be a silent prayer.

For a moment, I think about Intel. Intel held a belief in a higher power, despite the government of Panem basically pooh-poohing the idea. There isn't much of a punishment or law specifically denying a person's right to be religious, but it is looked down upon. But Intel's faith, though it didn't serve him in the end, was admirable to me. While I cannot bring myself to believe in any deity, I almost envy those who can push aside the woes of reality to embrace the promises of the undefinable.

I don't want to interrupt her vigil, but I don't have to, as she looks up as soon as I enter.

"You…should have some water," I say softly. "No matter what the arena looks like, drinkable water will be hard to find."

Hedy nods and obediently takes the cup.

"What's in it? Besides water?" she asks.

I smile weakly. "You're clever," I say. "Don't worry, it will help keep your nerves with you so you can make the wisest choices during those first hours."

Hedy nods, and as if I've given her permission, she immediately brings the cup to her lips, and in just a few seconds, the water is emptied. I'm thankful she didn't hesitate or refuse it out of pride or honesty. The Games are no place for honor.

"Will I feel any ill effects?" she asks.

"Beetee assured me you won't." While this is technically a lie, as he'd never told me about any possible side effects of the tincture, I didn't want Hedy to linger on the threat of backfire in this crucial moment.

"Plume says we have a few minutes," Hedy says after wiping her mouth with her wrist. "Any final advice for me?"

I think a moment. This is my first time guiding a Tribute in such a vital hour.

"Don't go to the Cornucopia. Don't trust anyone. Find water, find coverage. Wait it out."

Hedy ponders on this moment before we are interrupted by Plume.

"It's time!" she bids us in a singsong voice. I've never been one to be driven to violence, but once in a while I feel as if a good kick to the woman's shins would be appropriate.

* * *

Beetee doesn't let go of my hand as we make our way from the hovercraft landing site on the roof of the Training Center to the Sponsor's Atrium.

"This is where we go from being minor players to the difference between life and death," Beetee tells me. "Sponsors are Gods here. Remember that if you want to see Hedy or Isaac come home. Also, you will have time to meet some of your fellow Victors. Don't be afraid. Many of them are good people."

Mentors from other Districts are already in the Atrium, but when I enter, most of the people in the room, Mentors and Sponsors alike, stand and applaud me as I come in.

Beetee leans over and whispers something in my ear. "That was the very last time you'll be given special attention as last year's winner," he promises me. "You and I are equals now."

"We always were," I respond. Beetee gives my hand a loving squeeze, and I get my first glance at the room where it all happens.

The room is enormous, with high-vaulted glass ceilings, marble columns, luxurious sofas and chaises scattered around the room. There is a long buffet table off to the right, and each side of the giant room has a massive screen for the constant monitoring of the Games themselves. Three of the screens show the Panem seal, waiting for the Tributes to be dressed and the Games to begin. The fourth screen, the one hovering above the buffet, has a list of each Tribute, along with their picture, District, training score, and odds as for this moment. Betting is actively taking place, as occasionally each statistical odd for a Tribute will change in real time. Avoxes serving platters full of light snacks and beverages are everywhere. The room is bright and intimidating. Chatter that is somehow both soft and deafening echoes throughout.

Beetee points out a small station near the far end of the buffet table.

"That is the Gift Registry. Once you have enough Sponsor money in hand, that is where you select what to send and write out your message," he informs me.

"Must we stay in here the whole time?" I ask. I dread the thought of being forced to watch Hedy and Isaac be ruthlessly slaughtered on three screens higher and larger than my living room.

Beetee shakes his head. "Absolutely not. We can take shifts, if you'd like. But it would be wise to have at least one of us in here at all times. There is a sealed-off room somewhere in here for Mentors only that contains a few beds and is soundproof, so you can be nearby in case a Sponsor is demanding to see you. As long as at least one of our Tributes is still in the Game, you may want to sleep in there or use it for quiet time. Also, if…if they both go on Day One, we won't be required in here at all, and we can wait out the Games privately."

As much as I like the idea of spending the whole horrid event alone with Beetee, I know the price of that is too big to wish for it. "How long do we have before it starts?"

Beetee points to one of several small countdown clocks scattered about the Atrium. "These are counting down to the beginning. Once the Games begin, they will start counting forwards, for how long the Games are."

I'm startled by the sudden blaring of the Panem national anthem. Everyone in the room stands at attention as the music swells. I grip Beetee's hand tighter. The seal on the screens cuts away to a feed of the Cornucopia once the anthem concludes. The clocks on the wall all read _00:00:5:00_. Five minutes.

The view from the screens reveals several things about the new arena, though everything isn't shown. The Cornucopia stands on level land, with the twenty-four pedestals circling it in equal increments. The ground beneath is dusty and dry, with some stray tufts of pale, lifeless grass and grouping of pebbles. Behind the Cornucopia, a fair distance out, the outlines of mountains and trees can be made out. The atmosphere looks warm and sunny. It's a half-and-half arena, which is used typically once a decade or so. Half prairie and tall grass, half mountain and rock.

The clock continues counting down…down…down…

As the Tributes simultaneously begin rising out of their pods, I can see Hedy, dressed in a uniform grey suit hugging her every curve, with a black armband emblazoned with a bright white number 3. Her wild hair is up in a high bun. Her face is impassive while the two tributes flanking her look frightened as can be. She begins moving in a circle on the pedestal, wisely taking in as much of the arena as she can in the last minute of sanctuary she has.

Beetee leans over and whispered in my ear. His words would sound sardonic coming from anyone else in the room, but in his voice they are gentle and sincere.

"Brace yourself, Wiress. Let the Games begin."'

* * *

Being in the arena during the Games and watching them unfold on a screen from the safety of the Capitol are, as I suspected from the beginning, two different but equal experiences. In the arena, you have no time to analyze or assess your situation. In the Atrium, you have nothing BUT time to assess.

Either way, the rush is enough to put me on my rear.

Beetee and I spend the next several hours without blinking, our hands entwined, watching the bloodbath unfold. Around us, sponsors hoot, holler, and wince audibly as if they are watching a sporting event. The Mentors, even the Career Mentors, are all sitting silently from their chosen spots. Some with partners comfort one another. Solo Mentors from outer Districts have collected together in a group. The divide between Capitol citizen and Mentor has never been more clearly defined.

The bloodbath takes a relatively brief amount of time. I am thankful to see Hedy heeding my advice and immediately running off towards the mountains as the gong sounds, where she will be easily concealed, and with this choice she almost guarantees surviving…for now.

While I wish the cameras would follow her out, of course all are focused on the battle in the center of the arena. Isaac, relying on his physical strength, decides to make a dash for the Cornucopia. The Careers don't approach him, as they, as usual, are more focused on picking off the weaklings silly enough to try and sneak past the carnage to gather precious supplies.

Isaac bumps into Chaff from Eleven, but neither seems willing to attack the other, and both men take off in different directions, Chaff holding a spear and a small rucksack. Isaac, holding a mace in one hand and a larger bag of supplies over his free shoulder, begins swinging his weapon wildly as he makes the decision to leave the bloodbath with what he's procured. As he progresses outward, he hits the Girl from Eight with his chosen weapon directly in her face as she attempts to stab him with a comically small knife, and she falls over, blood instantly pouring from her head.

Remarkably, Isaac doesn't seek out the Careers who want him as an ally. Instead, he bolts away from the fight in the same direction Hedy has.

I see Beetee nod out of the corner of my eye.

"What is he doing?" I ask.

"He wants to stay with Hedy," Beetee replies. "I told him to seek her out if he can."

This surprises me.

"You told me last year alliances aren't a great idea," I whisper.

Around us, Sponsors cheer as the Rosita La Mer from Four impales the Boy from Twelve through the neck with a harpoon.

"This is different," Beetee explains. "Sponsors love when District partners work together. Let's wait and see if he finds her."

I decide to trust his judgement. He has yet to let me down.

By the time the clocks read _00:00:25:30_, the bloodbath is over. In my arena, I had run so far away from the Cornucopia I never saw what a finished battle looked like. Now, I wish I still don't know. Bodies of children, some still bleeding out, are scattered about the barren ground as if it had rained corpses. The camera angles change too quickly for either Beetee or I to count them, but Beetee turns around to check the statistics board behind the buffet.

Every deceased Tribute's row on the board has been grayed out, their odds disappearing from the screen entirely. Then, as the cannons sound one by one in the arena, each one fades away in order of death, and the one underneath it moves into the vacated spot above. The Boy from Six is the first to unceremoniously disappear. He had a dismal training score of two.

The Tribute with the highest rating to disappear from the board with this first tragic wave was the Girl from Eight whom Isaac killed, who had a score of six. She was the second to last to die during the initial scuffle. After her, the Boy from Ten fades away with the last cannon, and the activity lulls at last. The final count for the first battle is thirteen, which is average at best. Once the cannons cease, the odds of each of the remaining Tributes begins adjusting as new bets are immediately placed on the survivors. Hedy's new odds are still fairly low at 18-1. Isaac's jump considerably, to 7-1.

The first three Districts are the only ones to have their teams intact. The Boy from Four didn't survive, the only Career to be out of the running so quickly. Districts Five, Six, Eight, Ten, and Twelve are completely out. The Boy from Six, the Girl from Seven, the Girl from Nine, and Chaff, the Boy from Eleven, are the remaining ones alive. Aside from Chaff, all of these ones had chosen to run immediately, as Hedy had done.

The screens stop showing just the Cornucopia. Now, they split into four sections, each showing a different place in the arena, each screen presenting different places, so there are twelve tableaus before us. This must be so we can observe more than one Tribute at once, now that they've scattered.

"You're very pale," Beetee remarks.

In all of this chaos I'm witnessing I don't realize how shallow my breaths have become, and how cold my skin is getting.

"There will probably be a long break between anything of significance happening," He assures me. "At this stage, everyone will be getting their bearings and finding water. If you'd like to go rest, you can do it now."

I shake my head. "I don't think I can."

Beetee nods, understanding.

Out of nowhere, I feel a delicate tap on my shoulder, making me reflexively jump in my seat. Beetee smiles warmly, which I find odd, so I turn around.

A middle-aged lady, tiny and pale, her hair thinning and streaked in gray, stands behind us, a friendly, genuine smile on her face. She gives Beetee an expectant look, and Beetee is prompted to begin an introduction.

"Oh, it's good to see you, Mags! Won't you join us? Wiress, this is Mags Flanagan, from District Four. Victor of the 11th Hunger Games."


	11. XI: Mags

**Chapter XI: Mags**

Mags Flanagan won the 11th Games, as Beetee goes on to explain while Mags lowers herself next to me. Like Beetee and I, she had to kill in order to do it, but like the both of us, Mags was reluctant. Coming from Four (although it was before the concept of the Career Pack formed in it's entirety), Mags was an expert swimmer and fisher, and she won after fighting another girl waist-deep in water in a bayside arena where the tide was rising. Her opponent slipped, and Mags kept her underwater until she drowned. Mags was sixteen.

I don't particularly feel the need to judge Mags for intentionally killing a fellow Tribute. Why should I? Beetee and I had both done it, and I like to think we aren't bad people. If anything, Mags gives off a matronly feeling, and her smile reaches her eyes. She isn't talking, but her face is so expressive, even I don't have much trouble reading her.

"Mags had a stroke two years ago, and that's why she can't speak," Beetee matter-of-factly explains. Mags nods solemnly. "But she's a lovely lady."

Mags gestures as if she is embarrassed by the comment.

"I'm sorry about the Boy from Four," I say sheepishly.

Mags sighs and takes my hand. She looks at me with sympathy, and I can read so much in her eyes. Mags is probably in her mid-fifties, but she still has some prettiness to her features. Even though her hair is thinning and graying, it's wildly curly, and she is wearing it loose around her shoulders. Unlike me and my limp mop of locks, long hair suits Mags. Her teeth are yellowing, but they're perfectly aligned.

"Wiress, remember that most of us are used to it. Sometimes not acknowledging—"

Mags makes a noise like a snorting bull, expressing annoyance, and answers him with a respectful but firm head shake. She puts her hand to her heart at the same time she puts her hand on my shoulder in an endearing thank you.

"I'm really not happy being here," I say to her.

We sit a moment in silence. Beetee is correct, there is nothing going on in the arena at the moment as the surviving Tributes take inventory of what they salvaged from the bloodbath and hunt for their evening meal. Most of the afternoon ends up this way, and I get the feeling that other than the victims of the Cornucopia battle, we won't be seeing any more dead tonight.

Mags makes a gesture similar to sipping from a cup.

"Oh yes! We should do tea," Beetee concurs. I nod affirmatively. Beetee leans to me. "Mags' talents are fish hook designing and tea."

"Tea?" I ask curiously, turning to Mags. "How can tea be a hobby?"

Mags gives me a confident look, as if to say_, "Oh, you'll see!"_

* * *

As Beetee and I gather a plate each from the buffet table and begin to fill it for dinner hours later, we are approached by a sponsor. It's a man with slicked-back green hair and a matching suit make of satin. He wears contacts that make his eyes a violent purple, as well as dark brown lipstick that makes his lips stand out starkly against his nearly-pure-white skin.

"Excuse me, but are you the Mentors from Three?" he asks, his voice loud and oddly accented in that weird Capitol way.

"Yes," Beetee says quietly.

The man turns to me and extends a hand. "I'm Cal, short for Caligula Hanson-Bender-Straussborg, and I own the HBS Jewelry store on Nineteenth. It's an honor to meet the Victor from last year!"

I look at Beetee, hesitantly, then meekly return his handshake.

Cal looks back to Beetee. "I do a lot of business with One, so I normally keep an eye on them, but I must say that your boy this year looks rather impressive, and it would be fascinating for Three to have back-to-back winners before One does. I'd be willing to give five hundred credits for a gift for him this evening. You know, give him a head start!"

Our first sponsor! I bite my lip and let Beetee do most of the negotiation and talking. After all, he'd managed to get me two rather extravagant gifts last year. Surely, he must know how to do this and do it well.

The three of us, me behind the two men, approach the Sponsors' table. On the flat surface, there are pictures and lists for hundreds of survival items, tiered by expense and category. Early in the Games, many items can be bought for as little as fifty credits, but those are things like a box of matches or a roll of bandages. If a Sponsor truly wants to cash in early, they can spend up to ten thousand credits on swords or crossbows. The prices only go up as the number of Tributes go down.

"Enlighten me, Beetee, what do you think the lad could use the most?"

I really wish he'd buy something for Hedy as well, but assuming this Cal wants to place money on Isaac to win, I understand why he doesn't want to spend credits on what he perceives to be a lost case. The mere idea of Hedy being "lost" makes me feel blue. If we'd gone to the same school, Hedy and I would probably know each other, maybe be partners for projects. Hedy is sweet, and I feel like if we'd lived on the same side of town, we could have been friends…

…I know I'm doing the worst thing I can do right now: get emotionally invested in a Tribute. But can I help it? Is any emotion my own anymore?

"Did you have anything specific in mind?" Beetee asks.

Cal pushes some air through his teeth as he browses the table. Five hundred credits could get a Tribute some small weapons at this stage of things…if it were the final days, it would probably get you a bowl of stew a best.

"Well, he's got a weapon already. No need to burden him with more…"

I think, _encourage him to get a weapon. Then if Isaac finds Hedy they could both be armed._

"Not…not necessarily," I whisper. Beetee and Cal both look up at me.

"Isaac has a mace. Maces don't kill unless you're very close…closer than you need to be to use a sword." It takes me almost a minute to say this, I'm so nervous.

"Then, Miss Wiress, Victor of last year's Games, what would you suggest?" Cal asks.

"I…uh…"

I look at the table, at the weapons listed under the "500-1000 credits" tier at the table. There are only three weapons to choose from. One is a set of three small throwing knives (700 credits). Another is a three-foot whip with glass shards embedded in the rope (500). The third item is a set of nunchaku, which was something I vaguely recall Tatsuya talking to me about during our training sessions last year (650).

"The knives," I suggest. Cal gives me a confused look.

"The whip would be more effective with his brute strength," Cal suggests.

"But knives you can throw at range," I counter. "Plus, he can hunt game with them if he needs meat."

I neglect to mention that Isaac's aim isn't very steady, as I'd seen in training. Isaac got his 8 score with strength, not dexterity or accuracy. Also, I will admit I just made up the part about hunting. I don't think throwing knives are big enough to bring down anything bigger than a racoon. But Cal doesn't know that. I hope Beetee knows what I'm trying to do.

Cal pauses a moment. "You may be right…teach a man to fish, after all. But it's more than five hundred—"

"—all the more reason to go high at the betting table," Beetee chimes in. His mouth remains stoic and businesslike, but I can recognize a shine in his eyes. He's caught on. It's taken him long enough.

"Perhaps…" Cal muses.

"In addition," Beetee continues, "Once Isaac wins, you can have him sponsor your jewelry store. Statistics indicate getting Victors to advertise increases wealth for the company by up to 70%. Your two hundred extra credits will be a pittance to pay."

Cal's face lights up.

"You both should live in One," he says. "You're fantastic salespeople."

I bite my lip and shrug. "The choice is yours."

Cal nods. "Indeed. Very well then. I'll do it."

Beetee takes my hand and squeezes it lightly as Cal turns his back on us to place his sponsorship order at the table.

The Avox manning the station looks at Beetee and makes a writing gesture. Beetee nods and quickly scribbles something on the order form.

The Avox behind the table silently takes the money form and order from Cal and takes it to a small opening in the wall behind him. He opens the door and sends the forms through it before closing it.

"How long until he gets it?" Cal asks.

"Less than an hour," Beetee answers. "They have all of these items waiting underneath the arena. All they need to do is receive the order, get a location on Isaac through the tracker in his arm, deliver the package to the top of the arena so it can be sent in, and wait for it to find him."

"Well, I would love to thank you both for your expertise! I will be getting home soon, but if thinks pick up again, we will certainly be in touch again," Cal says, shaking each of our hands again.

"Thank you for your sponsorship," Beetee answers. Then, Cal turns on his heels and saunters across the room, greeting some Capitol people along the way, and finally leaves the atrium.

After he's gone, I take a huge sigh of relief.

"That was excellent thinking," Beetee says to me when Cal is out of earshot. "May I ask why you pointed him in that direction over food or survival supplies? We both know a lighter or a blanket would have done him better."

I explain my thinking to him, about how having knives and a mace could help Hedy once Isaac found her, and he nods enthusiastically.

"You're brilliant."

I can feel my cheeks warm. Beetee seems to take delight in my blushing.

"You're lovely when you blush," he says quietly.

I shake my head quickly. "I'm actually tired," I say softly.

I only say that to change the conversation, but it must be triggering some psychotropic reaction, because I suddenly feel heavy on my feet, and my head begins to buzz.

"How about you get some sleep?"

"That's not fair to you," I answer. "A whole night for me and nothing for you."

Beetee shrugs. "It's only six, we can switch off at midnight if you're okay with that."

"Yes, that will do."

"There will be fewer people here after midnight. And it will be after the evening report."

I cringe. The mere thought of watching the 'evening report,' or when the faces of the dead Tributes show in the sky of the arena and every screen in this room is enough to make me want to sprint to the quiet room Beetee had indicated earlier.

"If something happens, I'll wake you."

"I know."

Beetee takes my hand. "You did well just now."

"I did?"

He nods. "You could have saved Hedy's life tonight."

"If he finds her," I say. As of now, Isaac and Hedy are both still on their own.

"Try to get all of this out of your head, and go get some rest," Beetee replies. "You're probably overwhelmed at all of this. I certainly was."

I can't imagine how Beetee did this on his own before I won. I remind myself he has done this for four years now. It's like learning how to dance. The first few lessons are always the hardest, as well as the easiest to give up on. Only with time and practice do you build up enough stamina to execute what you need to execute.

I bid Beetee goodnight and head towards the quiet room for Mentors only. The door is heavy in order to be soundproof, and when I go inside, I can't see much, as the room is kept in almost complete darkness, although there is a light switch by the door. There are two well-made beds along one wall, and a table with two chairs flanking it on the opposite side. There are no windows, nor any outside influence whatsoever. The silence is deafening, and it makes my ears feel hollow.

I think someone is sleeping in the bed nearer the door, though I cannot say which Mentor it is, so I go to the bed further inside the room and roll onto it. The quiet darkness feels like a warm, comforting blanket, and it's only two or three minutes before I begin to feel sleep taking me away…

* * *

"Wirey…"

A soft, pleasant, low voice rouses me out of a strangely sound sleep. Beetee's lips are only a sliver away from my ear. I can feel his warm breath on my face.

I'm a little groggy, but other than that I feel okay about getting up. "Is it midnight?"

"Yes, and I have good news," Beetee says quietly. This motivates me to sit up in bed. In the darkness of the room, I can barely make out his face even though it's only inches from mine.

"Isaac found Hedy. He's sleeping and she's keeping watch in the mountain sector of the arena. And he got the knives. She has two of them."

This is good news.

"Any more sponsors or arena news?"

Beetee shakes his head. "No sponsors for Three, but that's normal. One, Two, and Four get swamped. It varies for the rest of us."

"I see. When should I come and get you?" I ask, shifting my body so I can get on my feet.

"Six am? Only seems fair, six hours and six hours," he suggests. "That will be when they bring out breakfast anyway, and as much as I disdain a lot of the excess here, they do have incredible mulberry pastries."

I nod, even though he probably can't see me.

"If anything happens—"

"—yes, I know you will," Beetee says. "It's fairly quiet out there right now."

"Goodnight, Beetee."

"Goodnight, Wirey."

I leave him and return to the Atrium. True to Beetee's word, the place is much emptier, although there are still most of the Mentors as well as several roudy (likely drunk) sponsors and other Capitol personnel. The room feels even bigger than it did before.

A few eyes watch me as I enter the room and decide to get a plate from the buffet, which is still stocked. I haven't eaten dinner, after all.

At the buffet, most of the items from dinner are gone, and the meats, pilafs, potatoes, and vegetables are replaced with breads, toasters, spreads, coffee and tea, and other snack-like items. Each District's bread is represented on the table, and I can't resist taking District Three's basic-but-filling square rolls. I also decide to try a greenish bread from Four because it's shaped like a fish, and a brown, nutty-looking bread from Eleven.

I sense someone walking up to join me, and I turn to see that it's Mags, smiling and indicating the tea on the table. For as late as it is, she seems to be more energetic than I am.

"I love tea," I say.

Mags shakes her head and beckons silently for me to follow her. I take the breads I put on my plate, and as an afterthought, add another piece of Four's bread for Mags, and follow her.

Mags takes me to a small corner of the atrium, directly behind one of the hanging screens monitoring the arena. There is a small table set for two, with a large teapot and two teacups at each chair. On one side of the table there is also a notepad and pen. I presume that to be her seat.

"Is this the tea you make?" I ask.

Mags smiles and nods, and gestures for me to sit at the spot without the notepad. As soon as I do, she turns to sit in her spot and grabs the notepad, scribbling something on it before showing me.

** One of my favorites. My first experimental mixture. No sugar needed.**

She then sets the notebook aside and takes the teapot, pouring me a cup before pouring one for herself. The hot liquid is almost pinkish, but a deep, almost red kind of pink. It smells like a bowl of fruit, but I can detect hints of something else I can't identify as I bring it to my lips.

The drink is hot, so I only take enough to taste. Indeed, it's a very sweet fruit mixture, but the only one I can pick out is lemon. As I swallow it, there's a slight aftertaste that's almost…floral?

Recognizable or not, the tea is indeed delicious. I take another, more substantial sip and sigh in satisfaction. Mags is clearly pleased.

"It's wonderful," I say. "What is it?"

Mags scribbles in the notebook again. **Starfruit, lemon, and hibiscus white tea. Hibiscus grows in parts of Four. **

"What's a starfruit?" I ask.

Mags nods and writes again.** Very rare fruit. Victors and Capitol only. **

A luxury fruit. Fascinating.

I take a few more sips of the delicious tea, and I don't speak to Mags again right away so she can enjoy some of her own tea. I take the extra Four bread from my plate and hand it to her. She smiles and nods as she bites right into it. I do the same, and the taste surprises me. It's quite salty, for one. It also has a mild taste that is unfamiliar.

Hibiscus. Starfruits. Green bread. What else does everyone in Panem miss out on because of their inability to access goods?

Mags puts down the bread and writes something. **Beetee did a lot for you last year. He must have strong feelings for you. **

I put the teacup on the table and feel my cheeks get hot. "I know. He sent me special messages to help me."

Mags shakes her head and writes something else underneath. **He didn't sleep at all. Spent his entire time getting sponsors for you. Eyes glued to the screens. Tried to artificially raise your odds by hacking the board, but couldn't figure out how. **

This is news. I knew Beetee did a lot to help me, but he has never told me exactly how far he'd gone.

"What exactly—"

I'm cut off by a large noise coming up from those in the Atrium. Everyone is "ooh"-ing, as if something has just happened.

Mags gives me a look, and we simultaneously abandon the table and dash out to where we have a clear view of the screens.

I cannot believe what I see. The sight is enough to make me as nauseated as I was at the Victor's Ball over the winter after drinking that repulsive juice.

Isaac is lying on a snowy ground, his eyes wide open and lifeless, an enormous gush of blood falling from his neck.

Over him stands Hedy, her torso, arms, and face spattered, a bloody knife in her hand.


End file.
